My dear children,

This morning I feel the need to speak from a place that isn’t polished or strong, but real. My life has been shaped by a belief I learned early: if something needs to be done, then do it yourself. Don’t impose on anyone. Don’t ask for help. Just shoulder the load and keep moving. That mindset carried me through every job, every project, every season of my life. It filled my closets and shelves with tools and parts — reminders of problems I solved and problems I meant to solve.

But now, in this stage of life, I’m discovering that the same habits that kept me capable have also kept me isolated. The clutter in my home has a counterpart in the clutter of my relationships — pieces left unfinished, moments missed, connections I meant to tend to but didn’t. I’m feeling the weight of that today. I’m feeling the loneliness of it.

When two of you reached out this week about the passing of your step‑father, I felt your grief. I felt your memories. I felt your hearts. And I wanted to be present for you in that moment — to offer comfort, to stand beside you, to let you know you are not alone. But at that very moment, I was lying on the basement floor, head down in a smelly sump, overwhelmed and exhausted, unable even to respond. When I finally did, I needed help finding the words.

I want you to know this: I do care. I feel deeply. I am trying to find my way through the clutter of my past mistakes and the limits of my present circumstances. I don’t want any of you to walk through your pain alone. I want to be there in the moment with you, even if I’m still learning how to speak from where I actually am.

There is a scripture that speaks directly to the place I find myself standing:

“My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.” — 2 Corinthians 12:9

I hold onto this promise today because it reminds me that God’s strength doesn’t meet me in my independence — it meets me in my limits. His grace is not something I earn by being capable; it is something He offers when I finally admit I cannot do everything on my own. In the middle of grief, pain, loneliness, and the clutter of my past, His grace is still sufficient. And His strength is still real.

I am not trying to reach the end of my life in self‑absorbed independence. I am trying to reach toward you — toward meaning, toward reconciliation, toward the quiet places where God still speaks. I am here. I am trying. And I care more than I have always known how to show.

With love, Dad