He Matters

This year brought an exciting milestone for my youngest son—he landed his very first job. After months spent perfecting his resume, filling out applications, and nervously completing a trial run, he finally received an unexpected offer. It happened during a weekend when he pitched in to help a friend, turning a simple favor into a real opportunity. Now, he’s discovering what it means to be responsible, to step up as a leader, and to adapt to new challenges—all at once. I’m genuinely thankful for the supportive team and the valuable lessons he’s picking up every day.

For the past couple of years, the same friend who helped my son find this job has often relied on him for rides. Sometimes it’s just once a week, other times twice, usually revolving around volleyball practices or games. In truth, whenever my son’s friends have needed a lift, we’ve rarely said no—unless life just didn’t allow it. Giving rides became part of our family routine, a simple gesture for someone in need. This weekend, both boys were scheduled to work back-to-back days, which meant my husband stepped in as the unofficial chauffeur for these newly employed young men. Between the endless back-and-forth trips, the hours logged, and the rising price of gas, I suspect he’s spent more on driving them than they’ve earned in wages. Still, my husband never utters a word of complaint. I wish I could say the same for myself. As my son began confiding in me about some questionable choices his friend had made lately, I felt my patience wearing thin. If I’m honest, this friend was quickly falling off my list of favorite people.

Last night, my son announced that his friend would have access to a car and could pick him up for work. Perfect—I thought. Finally, my husband would be free to do what he needed to do in the morning. But just five minutes after that first text, another one popped up; the friend had changed his mind and now needed a ride after all. I felt my irritation flare. Then, a third message arrived—and this one stopped me cold. We were all lounging in the family room, the glow of our Christmas tree casting a warm, festive light over everything, when my son read the words out loud: “My dad doesn’t like me, so he won’t drive me. Do you think I can get a ride? Sorry.” I looked up from the twinkling lights and stared at my son, my heart sinking. The weight of those words hit me hard. How heartbreaking to believe your own father doesn’t care for you. Suddenly, my earlier annoyance seemed small and petty. I silently asked God for forgiveness for my frosty attitude. I felt horrible.  Before I could say anything, my husband answered my son and said he would pick up his friend.  

The friend’s message echoed in my mind long after. Why did he think his dad didn’t like him? What could have happened to make him feel so alone? I wondered if he felt unloved by anyone else at home. The weight of those questions pressed down on me, and I found myself asking for forgiveness once more—for my impatience, for my coldness, for not seeing the pain behind his actions. My heart ached for him in a way it hadn’t before.

Even though this young man isn't one of my son's closest friends, I am reminded that I have a role in my children's friends' lives. Sometimes, the smallest gestures—a warm smile, a conversation in the car, a listening ear—can mean a lot to a young person who feels unseen or unloved. I may never be able to fill the gaps left by others, but I can offer kindness, patience, and prayer. In these brief but meaningful exchanges, I hope to remind him (them) that he (they) matters.