I used to think devotion had to weigh something.
That if my hands were not full,
my faith was not real.
So I filled yours—
folded them in a pew before you were old enough
to know what you were holding.
I dressed you in reverence.
Rehearsed the right words for your mouth.
Measured my fatherhood
by how still you could sit,
how perfectly you could perform
a God I was still learning to find.
I thought I was building a house in you.
I was building a stage.
Then I watched people I trusted
keep every rule and forget how to love.
I watched scripture quoted at breakfast
and cruelty served by dinner.
I saw how fast grace leaves a room
when someone would rather be right
than kind.
And I saw the shape of what I was handing you:
a faith that fit on the outside
but held nothing on the inside.
A locked door dressed like a welcome.
So I stopped.
I do not have the answers.
I am not sure anyone does.
But I know what I will not give you:
obedience dressed as devotion,
silence dressed as respect,
a world where your mind
is the enemy of your belief.
Your mind is sacred.
Your questions are sacred.
The doubt that keeps you honest
is more faithful than the certainty
that keeps you blind.
Here is what I give you instead:
Measure a person’s faith
by the warmth of their hands,
not the sharpness of their rules.
Measure your own the same way.
Words meant to build tables
have too often been used to build walls.
Your job is to know the difference.
And when the world gets loud—
when everyone is certain and no one is kind—
trust the quiet voice inside you.
It is your conscience,
your empathy,
and everything you have survived
all speaking at once.
Today I did not take you anywhere sacred.
I just walked beside you.
No agenda. No lesson. No performance.
Just your voice and mine
and the ordinary holiness
of being together with nothing to prove.
I think that might be the closest
I have come to getting it right.
Faith formed by love.
— Dad
