It started with a simple, offhand comment to my wife. We were talking about the news—how tense things have been globally, especially in the Middle East. I said something like, “I just really hope we don’t get pulled into another conflict.” You know, the kind of hopeful-but-helpless statement that hangs in the air because, well… what can we really do about any of it?
She paused. Looked at me gently. Then said it: “We just bombed Iran.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was stunned. Not just by the news, but by how quickly the world can shift. One moment you’re planning dinner, and the next you’re staring at your wife in disbelief, the weight of geopolitics crashing into your quiet suburban evening like a wrecking ball.
And my reaction?
I cleaned the grill.
Then I fixed a broken downspout.
Then I swept the patio because there was dirt that didn’t need to be there and for once, I could do something about it.
It wasn’t until I stood in the quiet of our backyard—tools put away, hands still dirty—that I finally realized what I was doing. I wasn’t just tidying up. I was grasping for something solid. Something small and manageable in a world that suddenly felt impossibly large and frightening.
Because here’s the truth: I was scared.
I was overwhelmed.
And I felt completely out of control.
But here’s what I discovered in the rhythm of rinsing and scrubbing and fixing: When everything around me feels unstable, I go looking for the things I can steady.
The grill? I can clean that.
The downspout? I can fix that.
The patio? I can make that a little less messy.
And my family? I can love them. I can lead them. I can be present for them.
I’m not called to run the world. I’m not the one making military decisions or holding emergency press conferences. I’m not anointed to lead a nation—but I am blessed to lead a family.
I’m called to be a husband to one amazing, strong woman.
I’m called to be a dad to four boys who are watching more than I sometimes realize.
I’m called to be the one who steadies the ship at home, not the one who controls the tides.
And when I remember that? I find peace.
Because if every one of us really did that—if we turned down the volume of outrage and turned up our intention to lead well in our own little corners—maybe the world wouldn’t feel so out of control. Maybe the change we long for wouldn’t feel so far away. Maybe peace on earth starts with peace at home.
So tonight, I’m choosing to stay in my lane—and love it well.
I’m choosing to fix what’s broken that I can fix.
I’m choosing to trust that the One who does call presidents and generals and world leaders is still holding this spinning globe in His hands.
And I’m praying the same for you. That when the headlines feel too heavy, you’ll remember who you’re actually responsible for. That when fear creeps in, you’ll clean something small. Hug someone close. Sit with the people who matter most.
Because your home—your heart—your people? They need more of you.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s how the world gets changed anyway. One backyard. One grill. One quiet act of faithfulness at a time.