Showing Up, Even When Things Slow Down

I’ve always been taught that if you’re on time, you’re already late.

Which means it feels quietly significant to say this out loud:
this one is being written and posted on time.
The first Monday in three weeks.

We spent the long weekend waiting on the weather. Watching rain turn to ice, and ice to snow.

At one point, I stepped outside to check on things and heard a sound I hadn’t heard in years: the soft, scattered plinks on branches and boughs. The sound of rain turning solid. It was the sound I grew up listening for in the Midwest, when you knew the world was about to slow down, whether you wanted it to or not.

Waiting on the weather mostly meant waiting on me.
The rest of the family was content to focus on other things, getting reports as needed. That’s my role. Safety. Prep. Watching the edges.

I realized we weren’t going anywhere when my neighbor’s son got stuck in a 4x4 on a gravel road. Not off it. Not in a ditch. On the road itself. The ice was thicker than the rocks underneath, even on a hill. That was the moment the outside world shut down.

Inside the house, the kids did better than expected. There were moments of chaos, sure. But also creativity, space apart, time together. Snuggles. Laughter. And one hard learning moment when a word was used, and then unpacked. The kind of moment that sticks with you longer than it should, because it’s part of growing up.

Time did that strange thing it does in moments like this: it moved slowly while we were in it, and became a blur the second we stepped out of it.

The stillness forced me to notice something.
Our house is changing. We’re changing too. We’re becoming more ourselves, less like scattered wanderers, more rooted. A theme is forming, whether we planned it or not.

The quiet settled somewhere between rest and tension. It’s that space where you can see what needs to happen, but care just a little less than usual. Where you could fall asleep, but choose not to.

Taking some time off taught me something important about my pace: it’s good. There may be room to slow down, but I don’t have to fill it. Things don’t immediately fall apart when I step back. At least, not yet. I’m still figuring that out.

I’ve always believed “on time” meant what it did when I was growing up:
if you’re on time, you’re late; if you’re late, why even show up?

Fifteen years of marriage and thirteen years of being a dad have started to soften that edge. Sometimes, being on time just means showing up. It’s not about when, but that you’re there.

The kids remind me daily that they’re growing. Not just in the obvious ways, but in the questions they ask, the things they notice, the conversations they start. Older than my heart thinks they should be.

At one point, I was neck-deep in C# code for my stream bot when my son asked if I could read to him. I shut it down instantly. Curled up. Read the story. No hesitation.

That’s what I’m trying to protect for them this season: connection without isolation. Choices that aren’t screens. Checking in on each other. Making time and space for one another while those foundations are still setting.

So what does showing up look like this Monday?

It looks like being here, even though the easier answer would be taking the day off.
It looks like preparation. Seeds are being planted again. Watching friends create reminded me that passion and skill don’t disappear when you step away, they wait for you.

What am I leaving behind with the ice and snow?

The urgency to be everywhere at once.

This is a grounded moment.
And today, I’m on time.

Much love. Stay safe. Wash your damn hands.
I’ll see you next time.