Strong Enough to Listen

My Children Did Not Apply to Join My Fan Club

I don't like losing.

I have been pretty consistent about that throughout my life. Sports, games, business, sibling competition give me something with an outcome, and I can usually find a reason that outcome needs to go my way.

Another rep. Another attempt. Another strategy. There has to be a way to figure this thing out.

That approach can help you accomplish quite a bit. It can also make you an exhausting person to play a completely unnecessary game with on vacation.

Danielle has provided me with ample opportunities to practice losing. Rummy, for example. She has considerably more experience, and apparently my desire to win does not count as a substitute for knowing what I'm doing. An unfortunate loophole in the marriage agreement.

But fatherhood has challenged that competitive part of me in a much deeper way.

My children did not apply to join my fan club.

They aren't here to validate my intelligence, applaud my work ethic, or confirm that I am handling every situation correctly. They are people entrusted to my care. People with needs, thoughts, preferences, questions, and experiences that extend well beyond whatever I had planned for the afternoon.

Recently, I watched a short video about how daughters humble their fathers. It was funny because the distance between a man's confidence and his actual parenting ability can be pretty impressive.

We can spend years becoming competent in one part of life and assume that competence will automatically transfer into the house.

Then we discover that loving a child requires some abilities we haven't practiced nearly as much as talking, working, or being in charge.

Listening, for instance.

Waiting.

Receiving correction without immediately preparing a closing argument.

I can see why God would keep giving me opportunities to practice. Apparently, I have not tested out of the course.

Back When I Called It the Estrogen Ocean

Before Titus was born, it was Danielle, Madison, Charlotte, and me.

I used to joke that I lived in the “estrogen ocean.” It usually got a laugh. I was a Wyoming ranch boy who had grown up with a brother, and now I was the only guy in a house full of girls.

I wanted a son. I have been honest about that desire. But I also need to be clear about something: my daughters were never an incomplete answer to fatherhood while I waited for a boy.

Madison made me a father. Charlotte expanded that responsibility. Titus, David, Kennedy, and Emma have each brought another entire person into a family that continues to teach me how much I still have to learn.

Four daughters. Two sons. Plenty of opportunities for my original assumptions to be reviewed.

I can joke about being outnumbered, but underneath the joke is gratitude. My daughters have given me relationships I could not have understood from outside them. I could think about being a dad before they arrived. Actually becoming their dad has required me to keep revising the picture.

And I am learning that revision can be a good thing.

If my understanding of fatherhood hasn't changed since before I had children, there is a decent chance I have spent a lot of time talking and very little time paying attention.

Psalm 127:3 calls children “a heritage from the Lord.” That asks something of me. These children have lives to live, gifts to develop, and decisions they will eventually make for themselves. My years with them carry responsibility.

I want to enjoy those years, too.

It would be a terrible deal to spend their entire childhood preparing them for adulthood and forget to have a relationship with them while they are children.

Providing Was Always Going to Be Part of It

When I think about being a good dad, provision makes sense to me.

Work. Make money. Meet needs. Solve the problem. Keep the family moving.

Those responsibilities matter. Groceries remain stubbornly uninterested in being paid for with good intentions. I have yet to persuade a utility company to accept a heartfelt declaration about my priorities.

But provision can become a very convenient answer to questions it doesn't fully address.

Am I listening? Am I patient? Do my children experience me as available? Can they tell me something inconvenient without having to calculate whether this is a good time to be a person around me?

Those questions require more than a financial answer.

A child can have a house, meals, clothes, and activities and still need the attention of the parent providing them. I want to remember that when my mind starts adding up everything I have done and wondering why another request has arrived.

My contribution to the family doesn't make the rest of the family an interruption.

That sentence gets harder to live when I am busy, tired, or convinced that the thing on my screen is urgent. Especially when I have created the urgency myself and would prefer everyone else participate in the emergency.

I need to be able to finish important work. I also need to notice when work has become my excuse for never fully arriving home.

There is a kind of humility in admitting that the people I love may need something from me I cannot provide by working another hour.

They may need the hour.

Strong Enough to Listen

James 1:19 gives me a fairly direct set of instructions:

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.”

I can see why the order matters. My natural instinct is often to hear enough to identify a problem, decide what needs to happen, and get moving.

Useful in some circumstances. In a relationship, that can mean I start responding before the other person has finished explaining what I am responding to.

With children, the temptation is even easier to justify. I am older. I have more experience. I can probably anticipate where the story is going.

Probably is doing a lot of work in that sentence.

A child may be trying to explain a disappointment while I am already deciding whether it warrants being disappointed. She may be telling me about something important to her while I am measuring it against everything important to me.

If I listen that way, I can miss the person while accurately identifying the subject.

I want to understand what matters to my daughters before I decide how to respond. That means giving them enough room to finish. Asking a question that helps me learn something. Being willing to discover that my first interpretation was wrong.

And sometimes it means hearing that I was physically present without being particularly attentive.

That is uncomfortable information. It is also useful information.

If I train my children to believe that correcting Dad creates a bigger problem than the one they were trying to explain, eventually they may stop trying. I could mistake that silence for respect when it is actually resignation.

I want them to be able to speak respectfully and honestly. For that to happen, I have to practice receiving honesty without punishing them for offering it.

My authority can survive a question. My relationship with them deserves an answer that includes patience.

Sometimes I Am Solving the Wrong Problem

Consider an ordinary parenting situation. A child comes to you upset about something that happened with a friend.

You can immediately produce a plan: say this, do that, avoid this person, handle it differently next time. Within two minutes, you have constructed an entire friendship recovery strategy.

Very efficient. We should probably invoice somebody.

But perhaps the child needed to tell the story before discussing a solution. Perhaps there is a detail you haven't heard. Perhaps she already knows what to do and is trying to process how it felt.

I recognize the impulse to fix things. When someone I love is hurting, I want to remove whatever is causing the hurt. There is care in that impulse.

There can also be impatience in it. Their distress makes me uncomfortable, and a quick solution promises to make both of us feel better.

I am learning to leave room for a simple question: Do you want help thinking this through, or do you need me to listen for a while?

That question doesn't remove my responsibility to intervene when something is unsafe. It helps me understand what kind of response is needed in a situation that allows time for conversation.

The distinction matters in marriage, too. An explanation is useful when someone needs an explanation. When someone needs understanding, a detailed explanation of why I already understand can become an interesting demonstration of the opposite.

My daughters need a father who can help them solve problems. They also need to know that their feelings can be heard before they have a finished plan.

Gentleness Still Has a Backbone

I don't believe becoming a gentler father means giving my children whatever they want.

They need boundaries. They need instruction. They need practice handling disappointment, respecting other people, and accepting that wanting something does not automatically make it available.

That is information I continue to find personally inconvenient, so we can learn together.

Ephesians 6:4 gives fathers both a warning about provoking their children and a responsibility to raise them in the Lord's instruction. Those belong together. I am responsible for how I guide them and for the manner in which I do it.

I can hold a boundary and explain it calmly. I can interrupt harmful behavior without humiliating the child. I can take time to settle myself before continuing a conversation, provided everyone is safe and I return to finish it.

The volume of my voice doesn't establish the quality of my leadership.

Galatians 5:22–23 includes gentleness and self-control among the fruit of the Spirit. That challenges the version of strength that only knows how to escalate. Self-control requires me to govern what is happening inside me before I insist that a child govern what is happening inside her.

There will be moments when I need to act quickly and firmly. There will also be plenty of moments when my frustration is trying to promote itself into a safety concern because safety sounds more respectable than impatience.

I need enough honesty to recognize the difference.

My daughters should be able to rely on my strength. They should also have the experience of that strength being careful with them.

I want the same for my sons. Titus and David need tenderness, too. Nothing about raising daughters gives me permission to make gentleness unavailable to the boys.

Four Daughters. Four People.

Madison, Charlotte, Kennedy, and Emma share a family. That does not make them interchangeable.

I can learn something from one relationship without assuming I now understand every relationship. Being a girl dad is a description. It is not a shortcut around knowing the individual girl.

One child may want time before talking. Another may need help putting an experience into words. A child who appreciated one kind of encouragement last year may need something different as she grows.

Those are possibilities I need to stay open to, rather than roles I get to assign permanently.

If I decide too early that I know which one is sensitive, which one is strong, which one is difficult, or which one never needs help, I can start seeing my label instead of seeing my child.

I want to leave room for surprise.

I want my daughters to build skills, take on challenges, ask questions, and develop judgment. I want to enjoy their humor and hear their ideas. I want to notice what interests them, including interests I would never have chosen for myself.

They are allowed to become people I have to keep getting to know.

That is part of the privilege. I get years of discovery with someone I already love.

The practical requirement is that I keep showing up curious. Fatherhood doesn't come with a completion certificate after I memorize birthdays and locate the correct size of shoes.

Those are useful starting points. The person keeps growing.

Danielle Shouldn't Have to Be the Only Expert

There is another way fatherhood asks a man to become teachable: he has to admit when he needs to learn how something in the house works.

I am comfortable being a beginner in a business opportunity if I believe the opportunity is worth pursuing. I can research, ask questions, find someone with experience, and practice.

That willingness belongs at home, too.

If Danielle knows more about a child's routine, preference, or current concern, I can learn. I don't need to turn my lack of information into a permanent arrangement where everything returns to her.

Being capable at home requires attention. The details become familiar because someone has paid attention to them repeatedly. I can become someone who does that.

There is humility in asking for help without making the helper responsible for the entire task. There is love in remembering the answer so the same question doesn't become a subscription Danielle never agreed to purchase.

My daughters benefit when they see their father take ordinary care seriously. They also benefit when they see their mother treated as a person whose time and energy matter.

I want them to see cooperation in our marriage. That includes making room for each other's strengths and accepting that one of us may know something the other needs to learn.

Danielle's Rummy record has already established that this is a real possibility.

The Way I Love Their Mother Is Part of the Lesson

I can talk to my daughters about respect. They also get to observe what respect looks like between Danielle and me.

They hear tone. They notice attention. They see whether a disagreement becomes an excuse to belittle someone. They see whether affection is still available when life is inconvenient.

That gives my ordinary behavior a weight that a carefully prepared explanation cannot carry by itself.

I want to speak well of Danielle. I want to listen when she has a concern. I want to protect space for our relationship as we raise a family, work, and handle everything else that finds its way onto the calendar.

Those are commitments I have to practice. Naming them in a Field Note is considerably easier than living them when I am tired and would prefer to be declared correct immediately.

Philippians 2:3–8 directs believers toward humility and concern for others, grounding that way of life in Christ's own example. I have to let that reach the relationships where I am most familiar and least likely to rehearse my behavior.

At home, humility can mean considering that Danielle has a legitimate point before I finish explaining why I have one. It can mean doing what serves the family even when I receive no special recognition for it.

The children are learning something about love while all of that happens.

I hope they see a marriage where both people keep choosing to learn. I hope they see two adults who can disagree, take responsibility, and return to each other with care.

That is a much more useful example than Dad winning an argument nobody enjoyed having.

An Apology a Child Can Actually Understand

If I get something wrong with my children, I want to be able to say so plainly.

That sounds simple until pride starts editing the apology.

Suddenly there are qualifying statements, supporting documents, and a detailed explanation of how tired I was. The child needs an apology, and Dad is preparing an appeal.

Being the parent gives me responsibility for the repair. I can explain what I did, acknowledge its effect, and name what I need to do differently. I can do that in language appropriate to the child's age.

Words like these can help: I interrupted you. I didn't hear you out. I spoke too harshly. You deserved a calmer response.

Those are examples of the kind of honesty I want to practice. The work continues afterward, when I get another opportunity to respond.

I also need to let a child have a response to the apology. She may still be upset. I don't get to demand immediate reassurance so I can feel better about having taken responsibility.

My children are not responsible for managing my guilt. That belongs with me, God, and the adults who help me grow.

What I can offer them is evidence that mistakes can be admitted and behavior can change. I want them to see repentance become practical. The next conversation, the next interrupted task, the next frustrating situation gives me somewhere to practice what I said.

There is strength in that. It takes a man willing to lower his defenses and do some work his children can eventually recognize.

When I Put My Shoes On

One observation I keep coming back to is simple: when I put my shoes on and start walking, my children will join me.

There is something in that I want to appreciate.

A walk gives us time together without requiring a production. We can share a direction, move at a human pace, and be near each other. I don't have to create a major event to be available.

It also reminds me that the example I set has influence beyond the instructions I give.

If I want my children to move, I can move. If I want them to pay attention, I can pay attention. If I want them to ask God for help, I can let them see that I need His help, too.

Their willingness to join me is a gift I want to receive with gratitude. It isn't a test they must pass to prove their love. A child can want to stay home, need a different activity, or have a thought I haven't considered.

I can offer an invitation and enjoy the time we have.

Fatherhood includes plenty of necessary directions. Put your shoes on. It's time to leave. We need to finish this. I would also like our relationship to contain room for enjoying one another without an instruction attached.

I don't want to become so occupied with moving my children through the day that I overlook the chance to spend part of it alongside them.

I Want My Daughters to Have a Voice

When my daughters are older, I want them to be able to ask questions, express a concern, and recognize when something is wrong.

They need practice while they are growing.

That means I have to be careful about treating every question as defiance. A child may be seeking understanding. She may have information I don't have. She may simply be learning how to put a disagreement into words.

I can teach her how to speak respectfully while taking what she says seriously.

I want my daughters to know that their discomfort matters. I want them to have room to say no to unwanted affection, tell me about an interaction that troubled them, or ask for help without needing to make the situation sound more convenient first.

There will be limits they disagree with. I still have to parent. But I can explain, listen, and make room for a conversation whenever the situation allows it.

The hope is that they develop judgment they can carry into the world. They will make their own choices. My responsibility is to give them guidance, practice, and an example of authority that is willing to be accountable.

I would love to make every future decision easy for them. I can't.

I can help build a relationship where bringing a difficult decision to Dad feels possible.

Jesus Made Room for the Children

Mark 10:13–16 is a picture I need to carry into my home. People brought children to Jesus, the disciples tried to turn them away, and Jesus intervened. He welcomed the children, held them, and blessed them.

The children mattered in the middle of everything else happening around Him.

I find that challenging because it is possible to be very serious about important work and become careless toward the people nearest to it.

I can have plans I believe matter. I can be pursuing a vision, helping clients, or trying to create something valuable. My family still needs to experience love in the ordinary interactions that make up our life together.

Following Jesus has to shape how I respond when someone needs me while I am occupied. Sometimes I need to finish what I am doing and give a clear time when I will be available. Then I need to honor that time. Sometimes I need to recognize that the moment in front of me deserves my attention now.

Either way, I want my children to experience consideration.

I am their father, and I am also a man being formed by God. Those responsibilities meet in very practical places: my schedule, my tone, my patience, the expression on my face when a child approaches.

My daughters give me opportunities to notice where I still need His help.

The responsibility for growing remains mine. I can thank God for what these relationships reveal and then get to work on what He is showing me.

If You Recognize Yourself in This

Maybe you are comfortable handling pressure and less comfortable handling a conversation you can't control.

Maybe you love your children deeply and still find yourself short with them when the day has asked too much of you.

Maybe you recognize the impulse to defend your parenting before considering whether there is something to learn.

You can begin with one ordinary interaction. Give it your attention. Let the child finish. Try to understand what she is saying before deciding what to do with it.

If you need a moment to settle down, take one responsibly and return. If you owe an apology, make it specific. If a boundary is needed, hold it with care. If your child is inviting you to enjoy something with her, consider accepting without first asking whether it is productive.

Time spent knowing your child has value. You don't have to extract a leadership principle from every activity to justify being there.

I say that as a man capable of turning a perfectly enjoyable afternoon into an opportunity for improvement. Sometimes the improvement I need is to leave the afternoon alone and enjoy my family.

And if a child is cautious because of how you have responded before, allow trust to grow at her pace. Your determination to change can be real while she still needs to see it repeated.

You can give her that repetition.

The Man I Want Them to Be Able to Come To

I can laugh about daughters humbling their dads. I think a man should be able to laugh at himself. Especially a man with children. There will be material.

But underneath the laughter, I want to take the opportunity seriously.

Madison, Charlotte, Kennedy, and Emma are growing. So are Titus and David. My responsibility is to keep growing as their father while I have the privilege of helping them grow into themselves.

I want to give them useful wisdom. I want to protect them, challenge them, encourage them, and enjoy them. I want them to experience my faith as something that makes me more honest and more loving in the house.

And I want them to know they can come to me.

With an idea. With a question. With something they are proud of. With something they wish had gone differently. With a mistake they haven't figured out how to fix.

That kind of relationship asks more of me than being right. It asks for enough humility to hear, enough steadiness to guide, and enough love to stay engaged when the conversation is difficult.

I am still learning how to offer all of that.

For a man who likes another rep, there is a pretty clear place to begin.

The next time one of my children needs my attention, I can give it.

Closing Prayer as a Dad.

Father,

Thank You for Madison, Charlotte, Titus, David, Kennedy, and Emma. Thank You for the privilege of being their dad and for the people they are becoming.

Help me pay attention. Give me patience to hear what they are trying to say and humility to recognize when I have misunderstood. Teach me to guide them with steadiness, hold boundaries with care, and take responsibility when I get something wrong.

Help me love Danielle in ways our children can recognize. Make me willing to learn, willing to share the ordinary work, and willing to put our relationship ahead of my need to be right.

Where I have been impatient, help me repair. Where I have been distracted, help me become present. Where pride has made me defensive, give me courage to receive correction and act on it.

Help the person reading this take one faithful step toward the child in their care. Give them wisdom for the relationship as it is today, and hope for the work that can still be done.

Form in me the gentleness, self-control, and love I need to be a trustworthy father. Help me be strong enough to protect my children and humble enough to listen.

In Jesus' name,

Amen.