Waiting

Story

I was three years old, standing barefoot in the front yard with my little brother.

My mom had gotten us cleaned up. We were wearing shorts and tank tops, and we knew why.

Dad was coming.

There wasn’t much to the yard. Just a little patch of grass, the sidewalk, and the street in front of our house.

So we waited.

My brother was younger. He was mostly happy running around the yard.

I was too, until I heard a car.

Every time one came down the street, I’d stop whatever I was doing and look.

Maybe this was him.

It never was.

The afternoon slowly turned into evening. Eventually, my mom opened the front door and told us it was time to come inside.

My brother went in.

I didn’t.

I remember crying and throwing a fit because I didn’t want to go inside.

But looking back, I don’t think wanted is the right word.

I needed to keep waiting.

Somehow, in my three-year-old mind, going inside meant I had given up.

If I wasn’t standing there, how was my dad supposed to find me?

How would he know I was still waiting?

My mom eventually picked me up sideways, carried me into the house while I kicked and cried, and closed the front door.

Observation

For a long time, I thought that story was mostly about somebody not showing up.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more about what I learned while I stood there.

I think I decided that waiting was an extension of patience.

And patience was good.

So I became extremely good at waiting.

I could wait for people to change.

I could wait for a bad situation to improve.

I could wait for a conversation to somehow happen without anybody starting it.

I could wait for something that should have been gone a long time ago to finally take care of itself.

And sometimes patience is exactly what a situation needs.

But sometimes waiting is just a way of not dealing with what is already true.

That’s harder for me to admit.

Because waiting can feel patient.

It can feel loyal.

It can even feel hopeful.

Meanwhile, years can pass while you stand in the same front yard, watching every car that comes down the street.

I’m still learning that patience and avoidance are not the same thing.

Sometimes patience means staying.

Sometimes honesty means going inside.

Sit with this

Is there anything in your life that should have been gone a long time ago, but you’re still waiting for it to take care of itself?

Pull up a chair,
Randy

Our Garage

I've been thinking about my grandpa's garage again.

Not because I miss working on old cars.

Although I do.

I've been thinking about how much of my childhood happened in that garage.

Sometimes he was working on one of his projects.

Sometimes he was helping me with one of mine.

Sometimes I was just sitting there while he worked.

What I remember most is that it never felt like his garage.

It felt like ours.

The tools weren't off limits.

The workbench wasn't off limits.

If he was working on something, there was room for me.

If I was working on something, there was room for him.

Sometimes he'd ask me to hand him a wrench.

Sometimes I'd hand him the wrong one.

He'd smile, tell me which one he was actually looking for, and we'd keep going.

Sometimes we'd hardly talk.

Other times, usually after he'd gotten pretty well into his cups, he'd start telling stories.

Stories about people.

Stories about work.

Stories about mistakes.

Stories about life.

Looking back, I think that's when most of the life lessons happened.

Not because he was trying to teach me.

He was just remembering out loud, and I happened to be sitting there listening.

If you'd asked me back then what we were doing, I probably would've said we were just hanging out in the garage.

I don't think either of us realized how much was happening in those ordinary afternoons.

Observation

I've realized that some of the people who shape us the most don't do it through speeches.

They do it by making room for us.

By letting us be there.

By treating us like we belong before we've done anything to earn it.

The garage taught me how to solve mechanical puzzles.

Looking back, I think that was just the vehicle.

What it was really teaching me was curiosity, confidence, and the habit of staying with a problem long enough to understand it.

I've spent a lot of my adult life trying to create spaces that feel like that garage—places where people don't have to perform.

They can just show up, be themselves, and pull up a chair.

Sit with this:

Who made room for you before you realized how much it mattered?

And who are you making room for now?

Pull up a chair,
Randy

The Armor

When I was very young, I learned how to protect myself.

Not consciously.

Just the way kids do.

I got pretty good at reading a room.

I learned what kept me safe.

I learned what to say.

What not to say.

When to speak.

When to stay quiet.

How to solve problems before they became bigger problems.

Looking back, I can see that I was building something.

I just didn't have a name for it yet.

It protected me.

Really well.

The problem was...it worked so well that it didn't let many people get close.

For a long time, I wondered why I could be around people all day and still feel alone.

I had great conversations.

I could make people laugh.

I could hold a room.

I could tell stories.

But there was always this little bit of distance that I couldn't explain.

Eventually I realized it wasn't other people keeping me at arm's length.

It was me.

Or more accurately...

it was the armor I'd built a long time ago.

The strange thing about armor is that it doesn't know when the battle is over.

It just keeps doing the job it was designed to do.

So when I finally started trying to take it off...

I felt exposed.

My feelings got hurt easier.

I felt vulnerable.

I felt, for lack of a better phrase, kind of naked and afraid.

There were moments when I wondered if putting the armor back on would just be easier.

But something else happened too.

The connections got deeper.

Conversations became more honest.

Life became more colorful.

I realized I wasn't just letting other people get closer.

I was finally giving myself permission to become more than the person the armor had been protecting.

Observation

I've realized that the things that protect us in one season of life don't always serve us in the next.

Sometimes they become limits we never intended to create.

Growth isn't always about learning something new.

Sometimes it's about having the courage to revisit something that once kept you safe.

Sit with this:

Is there anything you’ve built to protect yourself... that might now be limiting the person you’re becoming?

Pull up a chair,
Randy

Coming Soon!