Reader,

In my last email, I said that we have been designed by God to live, love, and lead with uniquely designed parts.

This isn't something I say glibly. It's something I learned the hard way: I know from personal experience what it feels like to try and live life with some missing gears.

Ever since our kids were born, I have dedicated a lot of my energy to parenting, however frenetic that energy may have been. I coached my kid's sports teams, made every effort to attend their performances, and helped with their homework wherever I could, though that became more laughable the older they got.

Part of my philosophy of good "dadding" included tucking my daughter into bed each and every night. No matter how exhausted I felt, I'd put that little girl on my shoulders, walk her up those stairs, read her a bedtime story, and then turn off the light to lay with her until she fell asleep. Most nights I'd fall asleep too, eventually waking up in a daze and stumbling downstairs in the wee hours of the morning.

One evening, when my daughter was four, I was lying there with her head on my chest, fighting the urge to doze as I waited for her to drift off. I just wanted to go downstairs and relax for a couple of hours before heading to bed and facing the smothering grind of the next day all over again. That's when her little voice emerged from the darkness.

"Hey Dad?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"If I could line up all the dads in the world—" she began. Instantly, my ears perked up. This is going to be good. She continued: "—and I could choose a nice dad or you, I just want you to know, I’d still choose you."

That was not the ending I expected.

I lay there in the silence, those sweet, weighty words crushing my chest and pressing me helplessly down into the mattress. Maybe what she was trying to say didn’t come out right? I thought. I should give her a chance to backpedal. "Oh honey," I asked, "is Daddy not very nice?"

She didn’t backpedal one bit. "Not really. But I'd still pick you."

That little girl did not have a single passive aggressive bone in her body. She was genuinely trying to express her unconditional love and affection for me. However, without knowing it, she packaged that loving expression in a truth bomb that would change the trajectory of my life.

I don't think there was a single other human being in my life at that time—not a colleague, not a close friend, not even my wife—who could have given me that kind of feedback without me becoming defensive or, more likely even, dismissive. That's your opinion, I'd be prone to think. Or: I'm sorry you feel that way. This is a you problem.

But I could not resist the sentiments of my own little girl.

Once her breathing had grown deeper and more rhythmic, I quietly slipped out of her room, but I didn’t go to bed. I sat on the couch in the living room and ruminated. I had taken my faith practice seriously. I read my Bible, prayed, tithed, fasted, served those in need, and engaged in worship. I was a professional Christian for crying out loud, teaching everyone else how to be spiritually and relationally healthy.

How could someone who had grown up in the church, studied at seminary, and held pastoral leadership positions for years miss it?

How was it possible that my own daughter couldn’t connect with me in a meaningful way?

Here's how: Even if you are devoted, even if you are sincere, even if you have the best of intentions—if you are missing some parts of your design, you will do damage to yourself and to others, resulting in a life of regret.

That's the hard lesson I learned that night, from the unlikeliest of sources. I'm so thankful for my daughter's words and the journey they inspired me to take.

Have you ever had a moment like that? A time when someone spoke an unexpected truth into your life that turned your world right-side up? Drop me a reply: I'd love to hear about it.

You are loved.

I'm for you.

You've got this.

Jake