I was on a plane, half-delirious from travel, bad coffee, and whatever time zone my body thought it was in, when I watched one of the strangest movies I’ve ever seen. Truly bizarre. The kind of movie you finish and think, Why did I just give two hours of my life to that?
I won’t even tell you the name. It doesn’t deserve the press.
But there was this one moment. One sentence. And it landed harder than it had any right to.
A father—awkward, uncomfortable, not great with words—was trying to express love to his adoptive son. He kept affirming him. Saying what he believed about him. Saying what he felt.
The son finally pushed back.“Dad, I know.”
And the father paused, looked at him, and said,“But if I don’t tell you… how will you know?”
That line followed me down the jetway. It sat with me in baggage claim. It rode home in the car. You know those moments—when something small refuses to stay small.
Because not every family grows up hearing it.
Some families love deeply but quietly. Others assume love is understood. Some believe showing up is enough. And for some, words were rare, awkward, or withheld altogether.
I grew up in a family that said it out loud. Often. Love wasn’t implied—it was spoken. You heard it. You felt it. Even on the hard days.
I think a lot of that traces back to my grandmother—our family’s matriarch. She came from a broken home, one where love wasn’t clearly spoken. Where affirmation wasn’t consistent. Where you were left guessing what you meant to the people who were supposed to see you most clearly.
She wasn’t told.So she didn’t always know.
And somewhere along the way, that shaped everything downstream.
It shaped how love was communicated. It shaped how presence showed up. It shaped the culture of our family.
That wiring runs deep in me.
It’s why I tell my boys I love them—constantly.It’s why I tell them I’m proud of them—even when the day didn’t go well.It’s why after conflict, correction, or consequence, I don’t withdraw—I lean in.
I remind them: My love didn’t change today. I chose you once. I’d choose you again. Even today. Especially today.
Because love that’s assumed but never expressed can still feel uncertain.
And maybe that’s the quiet ache you carry.
Maybe you didn’t hear it growing up.
Maybe you heard it conditionally.
Maybe you learned to perform for it.
Maybe you learned not to ask for it.
Or maybe—this one stings a little—you’re surrounded by people who love you, but they’ve never really said it out loud.
And you’re left wondering.
So maybe this is a permission slip.
To tell someone you love them.To say the words you assume they already know.To ask for the words you wish you’d hear.
Because if no one ever says it… how will you know?
But here’s where it went even deeper for me.
As I sat with that sentence, I realized it wasn’t just about family. It was about faith.
It hit me that so much of what we call “spiritual discipline”—reading Scripture, prayer, worship, community—might not primarily be about doing things for God… or fixing ourselves… or becoming some upgraded version of “better.”
What if it’s about hearing something?
What if it’s about positioning ourselves to hear, again and again, what God has already decided about us?
That He loves you. That you’re His. That He chose you—and He’s still choosing you. That even on the hard days, the disappointing days, the messy days… His affection doesn’t flinch.
Jesus didn’t give us a distant deity.
He gave us a Dad.
A Father who doesn’t assume you know. A Father who says it again. And again. And again.
So let me gently ask you something—over coffee, not from a pulpit.
What if your faith has become more about performance than presence? What if your habits have become transactional instead of relational? What if you’ve been busy doing things for God, but rarely slowing down enough to hear Him say, “I love you”?
Maybe it’s time to rethink some things. Maybe it’s time to loosen your grip on what you’ve always believed it was supposed to look like. Maybe it’s time to stop viewing God as a supervisor and start listening to Him as a Father.
Because if you never hear Him say it…how will you ever truly know?