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  Things That Are Slowly Changing When you’re mourning, the big things come first. The funeral. The phone calls. The hundreds of small acts of kindness that feel both like a flood and a fog. But then there’s this other category—things that change slowly, almost imperceptibly, until you realize one day that you’ve stepped into a new life without even marking the transition. For me, one of those slow changes has been in my own work. The Long Road to Publication I’ve always had trouble getting published. I have a Ph.D. I teach full-time for Colorado Christian University. But truth be told, I’ve never been a particularly skilled researcher. Anything technical—statistics, methodology, structured, step-by-step work—has always been a little harder for me. My head likes to live at 20,000 feet. I’m a big-picture thinker. The details feel like moving through sand. That’s why my dissertation still sits unpublished, and why several research articles fizzled out before they saw the light of day. But when it comes to the philosophical, I thrive. My students know I run on tangents—thoughts connecting in my mind like a scattered flow chart, impossible to keep in a single straight line. In philosophy, that tendency isn’t a liability; it’s a lifeline. This past year, I was published for the first time—four chapters in two different books. I love writing about faith: why God loves us, how He cares for us, and the intricacies of living out the practical aspects of the Christian faith. I love digging into scripture, understanding Christianity more deeply, and exploring how it should be the foundation and framework of the psychology and counseling field. Those topics feel like breathing. The Dad Who Shaped My Imagination My dad was a children’s literature buff. He taught elementary school for years and adored the worlds of J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Arnold Lobel’s Frog and Toad, Brian Jacques’ Redwall series, Gertrude Chandler Warner’s Boxcar Children, Beverly Cleary, Charles Schulz, Garfield, Donald Duck, old Disney specials, the memoirs and books of E.B. White, Bill Peet’s illustrated adventures, and Shel Silverstein’s poetry. He filled my childhood with those voices. He dreamed of publishing his own children’s book—one where I was the main character. I only learned about that a month before he died, when my niece self-published it on Amazon: The Wormy Spring Gang and the Case of the Night Marauder by Robert Wichterman. He’d published in Country Magazine, Sunday school magazines, and other places, but this book… he never could get it formally published. And here I am, finally getting published, finally finding my lane as a writer—not in research (though still in process), but in thought, story, and faith—and he isn’t here to see it. My next chapters come out next month, in The Mental Health Handbook for Ministry: A Practical Guide for Supporting the Church’s Mental and Emotional Well-Being (Dr. Mark Mayfield, ed.). Dad would have been proud. The Things He’s Missing It’s not just my writing he’s missing. He didn’t get to see the other things that are coming—things I wish I could show him, things I wish we could talk about: The work of Remnant. The ADHD testing program with holistic referrals and resources starting soon. The dream of buying a house on the beach, running rental properties on Airbnb or VRBO. The milestones in my kids’ lives—my oldest daughter is getting baptized today. When the Questions Can’t Be Asked I found myself sitting in the car outside the church this morning. Being inside was overwhelming. People kept coming up to me with those sad eyes—the ones that are full of love but hard to receive when you’re already carrying so much. I’m not an extrovert, and right now telling the story again and again drains me. So I stepped out, sat in the van, enjoyed the pleasant day, and found myself asking: Can he see me? I can’t find anything in the Bible that says he can or that he can’t. Scripture speaks of worship in the presence of God, but not much about whether those in heaven are aware of what we’re doing here. My best guess is that he’s completely engulfed in the presence of the Lord—maybe running and leaping in joy, maybe face-down in awe, maybe both. Still, I wish I could ask him things. About investments. About his prayer life. About gardening. About being a great father. About the silly things, like what to do when the dehumidifier in the basement gets overloaded with dust. I wish I could hear him tell me I’m a good dad again, because some days I’m not sure. A Memory That Lingers I must have been in junior high—maybe high school. My dad was sitting on the side of my bed at night, one of those times he lingered in the doorway and decided to check in. My sisters were not all out of the house yet, but they were independent enough that they didn’t need as much attention. I told him, “Dad, I’m afraid that when you die someday, I won’t make it.” He asked me why. I said, “Because I don’t know what I’d do without you. When I need advice or someone to talk to,  who would I go to?” We were very close until he died. He listened, and then said something that has stayed with me: “By the time I pass away, you’ll have a family of your own, your own house, your own job. You’ll be able to make your own decisions. You won’t need me in the same way.” Then he stayed a little longer, just sitting there with me, letting me know without words that I was safe and loved. His goal wasn’t just financial or practical independence—it was something deeper. Teaching Our Kids Full Independence and Healthy Relationships There’s plenty of online advice about teaching kids to be financially independent. But full independence is bigger than a paycheck—it’s about living in a healthy balance of self-reliance and relational connection. It’s learning how to grieve without collapsing, to think critically, to make decisions while staying open to wise counsel. Ways to Build Full Independence in Our Kids: Teach them to manage money but also to manage emotions. Model healthy conflict resolution—disagreements handled with respect, not avoidance. Encourage decision-making early, even if they fail, so they learn resilience. Help them practice responsibility in safe ways—chores, commitments, and follow-through. Value both independence and interdependence—self-sufficiency without isolation. Talk about grief and loss so they’re not blindsided by it later. Affirm their worth often so they don’t need constant external validation. A Great Cloud of Witnesses Hebrews 12:1 says, “Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses… let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.” This “cloud,” as Kent Hughes points out, is not a passive audience but the living testimony of those who have gone before us. Their lives are like voices pressing in from every side, urging us to keep going. R.C. Sproul notes that they cheer not because they see every detail of our lives now, but because their example proves the race can be run and finished well. And Calvin reminds us that the only way to endure is to fix our eyes on Christ — the same One toward whom they themselves were running. Maybe my dad isn’t “seeing” every moment of my life. Maybe he’s simply in the overwhelming glory of God. But I am still surrounded — by the shape of his love, the words he spoke, the faith he lived, and the reality that his life has joined the countless witnesses whose example draws me toward the finish line. Conclusion Independence—financial, emotional, and spiritual—is never meant to sever love; it is meant to strengthen it. My dad’s goal was not that I wouldn’t need him, but that I could keep walking when he was gone. I still long to share my milestones with him, to hear his take, to see his uneven smile. But the life he lived tells me I have what I need to keep running the race. Full independence doesn’t erase longing—it means running forward, tears and all, knowing that the one you wish could see you has already shown you the way. And as I run, I carry his witness, and the witness of all the faithful, with me—not as a fading memory, but as a steadying presence pointing me toward the One who called us both.