The Evening Coffee

Friday mornings always seem to arrive a little differently.

The coffee is brewing.

The calendar is already full.

Another day of meetings waits on the other side of my office door.

My ankle is still somewhere between broken and sprained. Every few days I convince myself I should finally go get an X-ray, and then it feels just a little better. Just enough to wait one more day.

I am tired.

Not discouraged.

Just tired.

And for most of this week, I thought that was the story.

It wasn't.

Every evening in our house follows nearly the same rhythm.

The kids hug their mom goodnight.

Then they come find me.

The boys head toward their rooms.

Zoey gets a little more time. She curls up with another book, protecting those quiet moments before bed like they're treasure. She is flying through stories these days, and I love seeing how happy those extra minutes make her.

Then, somewhere over the past few weeks, David decided we needed a ritual of our own.

I never asked him to do it.

We never talked about it.

He simply started.

After everyone says goodnight, he walks into my office.

He turns on my computers.

He makes me a cup of coffee.

Then he sits in my chair and waits for me to come back.

By the time I walk through the door, everything is ready.

"Is there anything I can help you with tonight?"

It has become our time.

Sometimes we talk about his day.

Sometimes we talk about mine.

Sometimes we don't accomplish much of anything except spending a few extra minutes together before another day comes to an end.

Last night I walked into the office and immediately noticed something different.

The room smelled faintly of incense.

When I asked him about it, he smiled and said he knew I liked it.

He knew it helped me relax after a long day.

He wanted me to be happy.

That stopped me.

Not because of the incense.

Because he noticed.

Somewhere over the last year and a half, my oldest son has been paying attention.

Not just to what I do.

To who I am.

To the little things that help carry the weight of a long week.

As parents, we spend years hoping our children will listen to what we say.

Then one day you realize they were watching what you did all along.

And that's when I noticed something even bigger.

It isn't just me.

Jacob has always been the quiet one.

Lately, though, he has become more engaged.

More willing to join the conversation.

More willing to step into the moment instead of watching from the edge.

Asher lights up every time he gets to spend time with David.

Their afternoons at the lake have become something special to watch.

There is laughter.

Patience.

The kind of bond that I pray lasts long after they leave this house.

Even Asher, our little whirlwind, seems calmer because of it.

Zoey protects those extra moments at the end of the day with her books.

Somehow the whole house respects that space.

She is growing into the young woman God is shaping her to be, one page at a time.

It finally hit me.

The culture of our home isn't being built by KatiAnn and me alone anymore.

Our children are beginning to build it too.

Not through grand speeches.

Not because we held another family meeting.

But because one son quietly decided to care for his dad.

And in doing so, he has begun showing his brother and sister what love looks like in everyday life.

That's how families are built.

One ordinary act at a time.

Tonight, after another long day of meetings, I'll walk back into my office.

The computer will probably already be on.

There will likely be a fresh cup of coffee waiting.

Maybe the faint smell of incense drifting through the room.

And somewhere in that ordinary little ritual that my son created all on his own, we'll spend a few quiet minutes together before the day comes to an end.

I thought I was looking forward to the weekend.

Turns out...

I was just looking forward to tonight.

One of the greatest surprises of parenting is realizing there comes a day when your children begin caring for others the way you've tried to care for them. It rarely happens all at once. It shows up in little moments. A door held open. A younger sibling included instead of ignored. A cup of coffee waiting at the end of a long day. Those small acts remind us that love is learned long before it is spoken. Our children are always watching. And if we're blessed, one day they begin creating traditions of their own that make everyone around them feel seen, loved, and at home.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

And I will see you, next time.