Kind

It was a warm September day, during the thick of COVID—one of those days where everything felt a little off, like the world had tilted just slightly. My wife was scheduled for a C-section, and while I’d known the date for weeks, nothing could have prepared me for the way it all played out.

I drove her to the hospital that morning. The roads were quiet, the air heavy. She sat beside me, her hands clasped tightly on her lap, staring out the window. She was quiet, lost in her own thoughts, and I could feel the tension radiating off her. She was scared—I knew that much—but she wasn’t showing it, at least not outwardly. She was holding it together, not for herself, but for the tiny life she had carried for nine long months.

When we pulled up to the hospital, I parked the car and got out, grabbing her bag from the backseat. She stepped out slowly, her movements careful and deliberate, as if she were already preparing for the weight of what was to come.

As we walked toward the entrance, her steps seemed heavier, but her face stayed calm. COVID rules were strict—no visitors, no exceptions. She knew she would have to face this next part alone, surrounded by strangers, without me by her side. Yet, there was no hesitation. She squared her shoulders, smiled at me, and gave me a look that said, I’ll be okay.

But I knew better. I knew the battle she was fighting inside, the fear that came with the thought of surgery, the worry for the baby’s health, and the sheer loneliness of being without the people she loved most. She was about to step into the unknown, and all she had was her strength and her faith to guide her.

I walked her as far as they’d let me, handed her bag to a nurse, and tried to say all the things I wanted to say with just one kiss on her forehead. “You’ve got this,” I whispered, even though my own voice felt shaky.

And then, the doors closed behind her.

I stood there for a moment, staring at those doors, feeling like the world had just swallowed her whole. She turned back once, gave me the smallest of smiles, and then she was gone. Alone.

In that moment, I felt helpless. She was in there, facing one of the most vulnerable moments of her life—surrounded by unfamiliar faces, about to go through surgery—and there was nothing I could do. She was scared, I knew, but she was brave. Brave enough to give life. Brave enough to hold on to the faith that had carried her through every kick, every sleepless night, and every moment of doubt over the past nine months.

I sat in the car for a while, trying to collect myself. The weight of it all hit me like a freight train. I had always tried to be her rock, but now it felt like my hands were tied. She needed strength, and I needed to find mine somewhere too.

I needed help—the kind of help I couldn’t get from anyone or anything on this earth.

There was only one place I could think of to go.

There’s a small monastery near where we live, tucked away and quiet. I’d driven past it a hundred times, but I’d never stopped. That day, I did.

I walked through the gates, lit a candle, and sat down on one of the old wooden pews. The air was thick with stillness, a kind of peace I hadn’t felt in years. I closed my eyes and whispered the only prayer I could manage: “Take care of her. Take care of our baby. Please.”

Larry Fleet’s song Where I Find God captures that moment better than I ever could:

"From a bar stool, Sunday mornin’ in a church pew... Sometimes, whether I’m lookin’ for Him or not, that’s where I find God.”

And that’s exactly what happened. In that quiet little monastery, I found God again. Not because He wasn’t there before, but because I finally stopped running long enough to notice Him.

I spent hours there, just sitting, praying, breathing. And as the minutes ticked by, the panic inside me began to melt away. In its place was something I hadn’t felt in a long time: peace.

Cory Asbury’s song Kind came to mind as I sat there:

"I’ve cursed His name in anger with my fist raised to the sky, and in return, all He’s ever been is kind.”

That’s what struck me the most. No matter how many times I’d pushed Him away, no matter how many mistakes I’d made, He never left. He never stopped waiting for me to come back.

When the call finally came, I felt ready. My wife was okay. Our daughter was okay. And in that moment, the world felt right again.

That day taught me something I hope I never forget: God doesn’t abandon us, even when we’ve drifted far from Him. He’s there in the quiet moments, the chaotic moments, and all the spaces in between. Whether you’re sitting on a bar stool, spend your days in front of a monitor, or kneeling in a monastery, He’s there.

All He’s ever been is kind.