A Crowded Bed, A Spacious Call

I woke up because my arm had fallen asleep.

That dull, tingling pain makes you think you've been infested with crawly things.

I shifted to move, only to realize I was pinned. Wedged between the twisted limbs of the people I love most.

At some point at night, I must have rolled onto my side. A little boy had pressed his back into my ribs. A little girl had snuck under the covers and claimed the territory near my feet. And the cats (all three) were sprawled in random and inconvenient places, living their best lives as sovereigns of the mattress.

My bed, once a spacious haven, had become a sardine can.

The bigger my kids get, the smaller my bed becomes.

I'm sometimes overwhelmed with the paradoxes of life. But I've found that God provides some of His clearest leading amid things that don't always make sense.

The Kingdom of God is upside down.

The first will be the last.

Dying leads to life.

Weakness is strength.

Losing your life is the only way to find it.

And now, I'm seeing another paradox: the more independent my children become and stretch out into the world, the smaller and more sacred our shared space becomes.

Lying still in crowded discomfort, I tried to remember that this wouldn't happen one day. One day, they won't crawl into our bed. One day, they'll think themselves too old, too big, too cool. One day, my body won't ache from being contorted, and I'll miss it.

These growing bodies that once grew inside of my wife now wedge themselves beside us, not because they must, but because they want to.

Discipleship is like that, too.

Yesterday, our family took off to explore one of our favorite nearby trails in Greenwood. In the past two weeks, I've watched my toddler's legs grow stronger and their confidence bloom.

Charlie took the lead. He hushed me, saying, "Daddy, only talk if you need to give Hammy directions. I want to listen to the sounds."

Further along, he said, "Do you hear that? That means we're close to the waterfall."

He said it just like I had a few days before to encourage him when he started fatiguing.

That's discipleship.

Just a quiet invitation to walk together. To speak truth gently. To wait for echoes – and then walk a little further.

It's spacious. Discipleship makes room for questions, exploration, and discovery. We can't cram truth into someone else's life. We can only invite them onto the trail. Most of discipleship is not data transfer as much as it's presence, showing up, and bearing burdens.

It's crowded. That same boy who led me on the trail invaded our room that evening. He'd already been tucked in. We'd read a story, prayed, and shut the lights out. But his big emotions bubbled up again, and he climbed out of bed with tear-stained cheeks.

Again, he just needed presence.

So I let him lay beside me with his head on my chest and my hand was on his back. I whispered, "Sometimes when our day is big, our feelings feel bigger. I know you're sad. But I'm here. I'll come check on you again in a minute."

He relaxed.

And I thought again: this is discipleship, too.

Spacious and adventurous on trails and crowded with midnight tears and silent embraces.

Walking with people, whether they're toddlers or adults, means letting your life get crowded.

It means absorbing discomfort, losing sleep, and sitting in the tension of being unable to fix everything.

It's easier to talk about discipleship than to live it.

Christians are called to "bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ" (Galatians 6:2).

Love will crowd your life.

As my bed gets smaller, my heart gets bigger.

As my time feels tighter, my love deepens.

As my life gets more crowded, grace stretches to fit it all.

That's the heart of Jesus.

He made room for us.

He welcomed interruptions.

He allowed the crowds to press in.

He carried the cross that wasn't His.

So I'll carry these moments.

The crowded bed. The trail walks. The night tears.

I can bear the burdens of those entrusted to me, even when it costs comfort. Because by God's grace, it fills my soul.

The bigger they get, the smaller my bed becomes. And somehow, the fuller my heart feels.