Parents: Keeping the Light On

Somewhere tonight, a parent is lying awake with a phone on the nightstand that never rings. Not because they’ve stopped loving their son or daughter. Because the conversation that needs to happen can’t happen yet. The other side isn’t ready to have it in real time.

I’ve sat with enough of these parents to know the question that keeps them up. Not “will they ever call.” The harder one: “if they do, what do I say?”

You don’t get to script that moment. But you can prepare your heart for it, the way you’d leave a porch light on for someone still finding their way home in the dark. You don’t know which night it’ll be. You just know you want the light on when it happens.

So let me offer three phrases I learned. This is not a technique, it’s a posture.

I know..

Not “I know I was wrong,” not “I know you were wrong either.” Just, “I know things are not the way we both wish they were.” No defence, no ledger of who owes whom an apology. Just an honest acknowledgement that the distance is real and it has cost you both something.

I’m not..

This is the phrase most parents skip, and it’s the one that opens the door. Say the thing they’re already braced for, then tell them you’re not saying it. “I’m not asking you to apologise. I’m not asking you to tell me I was right.” Your child has rehearsed this conversation a hundred times in their head, and in most of those rehearsals, you’re the one demanding something. Take that off the table before they ask.

I’m ready..

Not ready to talk. Ready to listen. There’s a world of difference. Talking is what got you here.

A friend of mine, I’ll call him Doug, went eleven years without a real conversation with his daughter. Christmas cards, the odd text about a grandchild’s birthday, nothing more. When she finally phoned, he told me his first instinct was to explain himself. Decades of a father’s instinct to be understood. He didn’t. He said the three things and then he stopped talking. Forty minutes of near silence followed, most of it hers. He told me afterwards it was the hardest conversation of his life, precisely because he had so little to say in it.

I think of the father in Luke’s Gospel, watching the road long before there’s anything on it to see. Scripture doesn’t tell us what he rehearsed in those years, only that he ran while his son was still a long way off. That’s the part I can’t get past. He didn’t wait for the apology to reach the doorstep. He was already moving.

Some of you will do all of this right and the call still won’t come this year, or next. I won’t pretend that away. But the conversation still has to be lived out, even when it can’t be spoken. You live it out by staying steady. By not posting the passive-aggressive thing. By letting your child know, in small and consistent ways, that the door was never locked. They just couldn’t see the light under it yet.

What does that look like? Smaller than you’d think. Send the birthday text with no question mark at the end, nothing that demands a reply. Keep your address and your number the same for as long as you possibly can, so finding you is never the hard part. If there’s a family gathering, extend the invitation and then let it go, rather than turning silence into a reason to stop inviting. Resist the pull to use a sibling or a grandchild as a go-between carrying messages back and forth; that puts weight on a relationship that isn’t built to hold it. And if you’re a person of faith, pray for them by name rather than by category. “My daughter” is a prayer. “My estranged child” is a diagnosis. Do this for years if you have to, without keeping score of how long it’s been.

My prayer for you isn’t that the phone rings tomorrow. It’s that you keep being the parent worth calling, whether or not this is the year it happens. There will be a day when that conversation needs to happen on their end. I don’t want you sitting in the regret of having been unwilling on the day they were finally ready.

So what would it look like this week to leave the light on, with no promise it will ever be seen?

Steady Presence Beats Strong Opinion Every Time

An older man and a young boy sitting on a dock, gazing at a sunset over a calm lake.

We live in an age drunk on opinion. Everyone has one. Most have ten. And thanks to the miracle of Wi-Fi, we can broadcast them before we’ve even had our second cup of tea. Strong opinions are applauded. Quick takes are rewarded. Volume often masquerades as wisdom. But in leadership—and in parenting—steady presence beats strong opinion every time. Let me explain.

In leadership circles, the loudest voice in the room is often mistaken for the strongest. It’s not. It’s simply the loudest. A strong opinion may win an argument. It rarely wins a heart. Children do not flourish under the weight of your certainty; they flourish under the shelter of your steadiness. The same is true of teams. When a leader reacts quickly, declares boldly, and pivots sharply with every new headline, people feel the tremor beneath their feet. But when a leader is steady—calm, measured, not easily rattled—others exhale. And when people exhale, they think better. They risk more. They grow. Think of Winston Churchill during the Blitz. He had opinions—strong ones. But what the British people drew strength from wasn’t merely his rhetoric. It was that he stood in the rubble with them. He did not disappear. Presence anchored his words. In crisis, people do not need your sharpest insight first. They need to know you’re not going anywhere.

To Parents and Grandparents

Parenting is a long game. As parents, and grandparents, we are tempted to correct everything in real time. Every mistake. Every attitude. Every misstep. You can spend your life chasing behaviour with opinions. Or you can build a climate with presence. Presence says, “I’m here. I’m not panicked. You’re not too much for me.” Strong opinion says, “Here’s what’s wrong. Here’s how you fix it. Here’s why you’re mistaken.” There is a place for guidance, absolutely. Scripture is not shy about correction. But notice how often Christ simply stayed with people. Consider Jesus with Peter after failure. He did not unload a lecture on loyalty metrics. He made breakfast. Then he restored him. Presence first. Instruction second. That order matters more than we think.

If you are constantly asserting your opinion, it is often because you are afraid of losing authority. Ironically, the more you insist, the more you diminish. Authority grows quietly when people experience you as consistent. You do not overreact. You do not shift with every emotional gust. You do not disappear when things get awkward. In boardrooms and living rooms alike, steadiness is magnetic. A steady leader does not rush to fill every silence. A steady parent does not escalate every conflict. A steady grandfather does not need to win every debate at the table. He just needs to be there: anchored, attentive, unflustered. That kind of presence becomes a reference point in other people’s storms.

Five years from now, most of your opinions about cultural flare-ups will be irrelevant. But your children will remember whether you were emotionally safe. Your team will remember whether you were consistent. Your spouse will remember whether you were available. Strong opinions often serve our ego. Steady presence serves others. And if we are honest, ego is loud. Love is steady.

What does steady look like?

Steadiness is not passivity. It is disciplined restraint. It is strength under control. It is choosing timing over impulse. It is asking a question before issuing a verdict. It is listening long enough that your eventual words carry weight. The leaders I trust most are not those who always know what to say. They are those who know when not to speak. There is a difference.

So..

Before you offer your next strong opinion, pause. Ask yourself if this is the right moment. Ask whether your motive is clarity or control. Ask whether your presence alone might accomplish more. You may find that simply staying calm, staying curious, and staying near does more good than your carefully constructed argument. And if you must choose between being right and being relational, choose relational. Right answers without relationship harden hearts. Steady presence softens them. In leadership and in parenting, you are not building a case. You are building people. And people grow best in the company of someone who isn’t going anywhere.

Family Stories: Keeping Memories Alive After Loss

We set up lawn chairs at the cemetery this morning, coffee in hand, my sons and I, with Ro and Brookie running between the headstones the way kids do at places that are supposed to feel solemn. Cloud cover for once, none of the early heat that usually has us wilting before nine. We weren’t in a hurry. We never are anymore. Neither of the grandkids ever met Brenda. Both of them know her anyway.

Eleven years. Long enough that grief has changed shape without disappearing.

My sons started talking, the way we do every year at that spot. We recalled that Mom would be crushing it with grandkids. We recalled that she’d have been the loudest voice in the stands at Liam’s gold medal game, no contest. We recalled how she used to meet a stranger in a grocery line and leave with their whole life story. She had that gift of meeting people in the moment. Most people collect small talk. Brenda collected people.

We sat there naming the traits the youngest grandkids share with a woman they’ve only met through photographs and stories. Ro has her intelligence, her curiosity, the way she can’t leave a question alone until she’s turned it over from every side. Brookie lights up a room the same way Grammy did, walks in and the whole place shifts toward her. It’s strange and it’s good, watching someone’s character keep showing up in people who never got to know her, although they say that they do know her from photos and stories.

I have this photo of Brenda walking hand in hand with Liam at Pender Harbour, just weeks before she died. He was small enough then that her hand swallowed his. I’ve looked at that photo a thousand times. This morning I found myself picturing a different one: Grammy’s hand in Liam’s now, except he’s 6’2″ and she’s the one having to reach up, gold medal still around his neck, and I know exactly what she’d be saying to him. Something like, “I never doubted it for a second. I’ve been praying over you since before you could skate and God definitely has His hand on you”.

That’s the thing about loss that nobody warns you of early on. It doesn’t stay still. Some years it’s sharp. This year it was more like company, sitting there with sons who are still, eleven years on, telling stories about their mother because the stories are still true.

I don’t have a tidy way to close this. Brenda isn’t here for the part of the story where Landon is moving to Powell River, Mac is kicking it in Tae Kwan Do, Georgia is caring like her in so many ways, Ellie has her grace and smile,or where a gold medal gets won and we reimagined Liam’s 6’2″ hand in hers instead of a small one. But she’s in all of it anyway.

910ee2bddd1cd6e124235c63ea540f6ba8a25f61141d8456e5ce5f694e3b47a7 — **Photo illustration created with OpenAI/ChatGPT from photographs provided by Carson Pue.**

Next year we’ll bring the chairs again. Some things you don’t need a reason to keep doing.

Celebrating Landon’s Graduation: A Journey of Love and Grief

Today was one of those days with a lot of emotion that I didn’t see coming.

Landon graduated from high school and his ceremony was a highlight for me. Watching him walk across that stage, diploma in hand, confidence radiating from his steady steps, was heart-stirring. He has worked so hard to get here and carried a heavier course load than he needed. His determination, faith, and kind heart shone brightly. With awards in his hand and being selected Student of the Year and Valedictorian, pride doesn’t even begin to cover how I felt watching him take this big step forward. It was one of those moments where time seemed to freeze.

Sitting there watching Landon, I thought about how proud Brenda, Landon’s Grammy, would be. Landon’s not just graduating from high school; he’s stepping into all the potential she always saw in him. As I prayed for him Sunday morning, I almost heard her voice, “Keep cheering him on! This is just the beginning.”

Like all significant moments in life, today wasn’t simple. I felt a pang of nostalgia mixed with my joy today. It’s funny how, as parents or grandparents, we tend to see not just who they are in front of us but all they’ve been up until now. I remembered a toddler who used to tweak a door stopper spring and then laugh hysterically, now stepping into a new chapter of his own life. And as proud as I felt, my thoughts circled back to Brenda. Brenda would have been beaming – no question about it. She had this knack for showing pride so big it made others feel like they were in the spotlight too. She wasn’t just a cheerleader; she was the sort of person who made you feel capable of greatness.

His Grammy for sure would’ve been the loudest one at his grad ceremony. I know she would’ve risen out of her seat, hollering “Yay LANDY!” with complete abandon, the way only she could. I could almost hear her laugh and see that proud smile she reserved for moments like this.

Brenda would’ve adored who he’s becoming. She always had a way of spotting potential in others before it even had the chance to bloom, and there’s no doubt she saw that in Landon. I imagine her pulling him aside after the ceremony and saying something wise but laced with humour, just to remind him to stay grounded. And then she’d hug him, hug him tight, but he never minded that.

It’s no stretch to say Brenda played a big role in shaping our family’s legacy of love, persistence, and belief in one another. Her presence, even years after she passed, is still such a grounding force. She had a way of making the ordinary feel extraordinary, something I often see reflected in Landon. Watching him cross that stage, I thought about how proud she would’ve been—not just for the tassel turn or his speech but for what it represented. Graduations aren’t just academic milestones; they’re about persistence, growth, and stepping into the unknown with courage.

Going into church today, I tried to share my feelings with Jason and Kristin (Landon’s mom and dad). I thought I could describe the thankfulness and gratitude I’d been pouring out to God for their son, but as I started to speak, the words caught in my throat. The tears came suddenly. It was as though everything hit me at once. The pride, the missing piece, the tender reminder that grief and joy often exist together. You think you’re okay, that you’ve processed everything, and then a moment comes, a memory, and it’s like the Grief Committee decided to hold an unannounced meeting right as I walked into a church full of people.

My wife, Glenda, gently reminded me that this wasn’t just a graduation; it was another “first” on my grief journey. Landon is the first grandchild to graduate since Brenda, passed. Her absence, though not mentioned explicitly, was very much present.

Brenda would have loved all this. Oh, how she would have loved it. She was a woman who celebrated every milestone with gusto, whether it was as small as a child learning to tie their skates or as significant as a graduation moment like this. She had a way of making people feel deeply seen and wildly capable.

I see her in Landon today—not just in his accomplishments but in the way he carried himself. His focus, his kindness, his groundedness. These were all qualities she nurtured in him whenever they were together. She had this ability to look right into people’s hearts and remind them of God’s goodness already living there.

Glenda’s gentle words this morning stayed with me all day. This was a “first” without Grammy, yes, but it was also a moment to carry her legacy forward. And we did—we laughed and celebrated the way she would have, and, yes, cried just like she might’ve if she’d been with us.

The truth is, grief wears so many faces. Some days, it feels like a weight you can’t lift. Other days, it’s a quiet shadow, lingering at the edges of even your happiest moments. And some days, like today, it melts into the moments you hold dear, reminding you that the best way to honour the love you’ve lost is to allow it to continue shaping your life. At the graduation party, I was overwhelmed by a mixture of emotions I hadn’t entirely prepared for. There was the evident pride in Landon. There was gratitude for Glenda, who saw connections and truths I missed. And there were bittersweet and unrelenting tears that spoke to how deeply Brenda’s life continues to resonate with our family.

If there was a single takeaway from today, it’s the reminder that life’s significant “firsts” will always nudge us to reflect. They show us how far we’ve come, who we’ve loved, and how much we carry them forward. And sometimes, like on the way into church, those reflections come with raw emotion we can’t hold back.

For Landon, this event was monumental. For us, his family, it was, too, because it gave us a chance to remember, celebrate, and love in the ways Brenda would have championed. Landon’s future is bright—Glenda and I can see it just as clearly as Brenda would have. And as we cheer him on to the next step in his life, I can’t help but hope that we all find moments to celebrate the people we love. Whether you’re marking a milestone, supporting someone through their “first,” or just choosing to reach out, remember that these efforts shape the legacies we leave.

And for those of you who, like me, still find yourself caught off guard by the layers of grief, I’ll offer this piece of what I learned today. Give yourself grace when joy and sadness mingle. Feel it all, knowing that love doesn’t just disappear when someone is gone; it transforms and continues, carried forward in moments like these. Today was one of those moments—for Landon, for Brenda, and for all of us.