You have written some great stuff, but this is some of your best. I read it with sadness as I categorized my empty chairs around my table, but also took heart in the hope of waiting for them to return. One of my chairs isn’t physically empty but feel that is my child that has drifted the furthest. But daily I put my trust in the One who leaves the 99 to go after the one because He did it for me.
This piece captures something most people dance around. The distinction between launched, drifted, and lost chairs is a framework that explains alot of the quiet grief fathers carry. My own dad kept my brother's place set for years after he stopped coming around, and I never understood it until I got older. The paradox of praying for silence then grieving when it comes is uncomfortably real. That table metaphor lands diferent when its about people, not furniture.
This post touched me really hard. I pray continually for my youngest as he's my chair that has drifted and we haven't seen him in over 8 years now. We speak very rarely. I tell him every time we speak that the door is always open. I know that is all I can do. That and pray that he opens his heart to God.
I enjoy these reminders because I am in the thick of it now, the noise, the mess, the fighting. Somedays I do in fact wish for peace, but these always remind me to take it in and take it slow. Both my bloodline and my husband's carry the generational trauma of fathers incapable of communicating or bonding with their sons, often drifting farther apart with age and it is something I pray to break with my two sons and their father, but he chair that seems the emptiest is the one of the son my husband adopted in his first marriage. A boy who i fed and clothed and loved during some of his most tumultuous times. A boy who has fallen in with the times and now wears the clothes of the other sex. I know as pretty much an adoptive stepmother, my claim on his is smallest of all but i still wait, still pray...
My chairs were never full. Infertility robbed me of both children, grandchildren, and even children-in-law. I wanted to adopt, but could never get my husband to agree. I have work, I have ministry and purpose, a measure of health and a enough money to make ends meet most months, but what I lack taunts me and never let's go. I keep waiting for grown up life to start, but I am 62. It's nearly over.
Joy, that’s a real empty chair. The kind nobody sees, because it was never filled in the first place. Infertility is a grief that doesn’t get a funeral, and it can haunt a faithful life. But I’m going to push back on one line: “It’s nearly over.””They shall still bring forth fruit in old age” (Psalm 92:14, KJV). If you’ve got breath, God isn’t done writing. You may not have children by blood, but you can still mother souls. Titus 2 is still in the Bible. And the Lord still “setteth the solitary in families” (Psalm 68:6, KJV) sometimes through women like you who make a table where one didn’t exist. Thank you for saying this out loud. I’m praying God turns that ache into an assignment, and gives you “beauty for ashes” (Isaiah 61:3, KJV).
Thank you for your kind words. "It's nearly over" is hyperbole. I am likely to match familial patterns and be reasonably functional until 80, so 17 years plus or minus and God willing. I just know that will go by in a flash. It's also possible we will see the glorious day before then and receive glorified bodies.
I do have a plan I am getting in place to live out my current commission from the Lord. The ache, though, I do not expect to leave me until I am in the next phase, absent from the body but present with the Lord. I based this on the message I believe He gave me that "You will not mind the lack of children in eternity." I do see that those who have children are subject to equal or greater aches as expectations often are opposed by reality.
Joy, I know exactly where you are because I am there too only I’m 68. We have “adopted” the 4 neighbor children. They are a good, Christian family, happy to share the kids with their adopted grandparents. I’m happy to have them as my husband has stage 4 cancer and am not sure how long he will be around. But, I’ll have those kids and their parents. Also, I try to enjoy my sisters grandchildren as much as possible even tho they live thousands of miles away. Please know that you are not alone! God hasn’t forgotten us either.
I have five children. One has passed and was a believer so I’ll see him again. The one that is hardest on me is one who has chosen to end any contact. She hasn’t spoken to me in a little over four years. She’s my youngest and turned 30 last year.
The chair was empty for years. His mother died when he was 28. He would call two or three times a year, sometimes. He might fill the chair at Christmas and Thanksgiving otherwise it was empty. Then three years ago the day after Thanksgiving I received a phone call from him. He was at the hospital in the ER didn’t know what was wrong. Thought it might be cancer but I wasn’t. Two weeks later still didn’t know; four weeks later still didn’t know. Finally the last of January a diagnosis—Amyloidosis. A disease I’d never heard about. No treatment. No cure. The chair became permanently empty February 13. My prodigal son came home January 30. He accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior.
At 75, my table is empty almost every day. Sons have families of their own and my beloved wife passed into heaven three years ago. My encouragement to young Christian men is to enjoy the full table, rather than enduring it. Store up memories to treasure in case God gives you a long life with chronic loneliness.
My rule of adult children is wherever they are, you want them somewhere else. They come home for the holidays, leave the lights on, eat all your food, monopolize the remote to watch weird stuff, until you just want your routines back… until they pack up and go home, and they don’t make it to the end of the driveway before you wish they’d stay one more day.
Yes … I share the same life stage and nod with every sentence … One of the most bracing things I ever heard was “Healthy families self-destruct.” … but the drifting one still breaks a dads heart when we no longer can reach or connect or seem to matter to them at all … just hoping that someday they will at least know they were loved even if they didn’t want to stick around or talk much anymore. 💔
I have had many chairs at the table and through the chaos ... It was worth it. To pour in or not to pour in ... That is the question. Getting up in the middle of the night to feed & change my twins , while their mother who was on bed rest in a hospital for 6 weeks sleptbkeeping them safe. I can't imagine it any other way. Some chairs remain empty because of choices made by those who used to sit in them. 2 chairs will always be empty because they chose to leave this earth. Through the sorrow and the pain...God never left me. He got me through like He will if you lean in, let go & trust Him. Sounds impossible but it isn't. Tears are a language He understands...a crazy little (big) thing called love, God's love. In the deep waters of the soul, He remains tranquil. You can count on it. God hears your prayers 🙏 don't give up hope. Lean it and listen for that small voice and know that He is God.
My husband and I are in the "hard chair" season with our oldest. The drift feels so cold and permanent. I read this through tears...not really of sorrow, strangely. Tears that tell me there's a deep truth in these words. A Holy-Spirit-led truth that comes to bind up the broken hearted. So my heart says, thank you.
We're keeping the table set, all fixed up and ready to receive our son without hesitation or record keeping of who said or did what and why. We'll just pull out the chair and thank God for another chance to help feed his soul.
That phrase, "without hesitation or record keeping," that's the Father's heart right there. Love keeps no record of wrongs (1 Cor 13:5). You're doing the hard thing. Keep the chair ready. Keep the table set. And when he comes back, don't rehearse the lecture. Just pull out the chair. Praying for your family.
All I think of is loss. Within the last couple months, a Grandma and Uncle died. My remaining grandparents will go soon; Grandpa is 90 and has been in the hospital since Christmas, Grandma is a year behind and is basically blind and with all the other issues common at her age.
You have written some great stuff, but this is some of your best. I read it with sadness as I categorized my empty chairs around my table, but also took heart in the hope of waiting for them to return. One of my chairs isn’t physically empty but feel that is my child that has drifted the furthest. But daily I put my trust in the One who leaves the 99 to go after the one because He did it for me.
Thank you Matt for reading and sharing this
Awesome post. I'd write more but my allergies are acting up and I can't see straight... Thank you, this one hurt real good...
Thanks for being here Bert
This piece captures something most people dance around. The distinction between launched, drifted, and lost chairs is a framework that explains alot of the quiet grief fathers carry. My own dad kept my brother's place set for years after he stopped coming around, and I never understood it until I got older. The paradox of praying for silence then grieving when it comes is uncomfortably real. That table metaphor lands diferent when its about people, not furniture.
Amen
This post touched me really hard. I pray continually for my youngest as he's my chair that has drifted and we haven't seen him in over 8 years now. We speak very rarely. I tell him every time we speak that the door is always open. I know that is all I can do. That and pray that he opens his heart to God.
Thank you Crystal, for sharing that.
I enjoy these reminders because I am in the thick of it now, the noise, the mess, the fighting. Somedays I do in fact wish for peace, but these always remind me to take it in and take it slow. Both my bloodline and my husband's carry the generational trauma of fathers incapable of communicating or bonding with their sons, often drifting farther apart with age and it is something I pray to break with my two sons and their father, but he chair that seems the emptiest is the one of the son my husband adopted in his first marriage. A boy who i fed and clothed and loved during some of his most tumultuous times. A boy who has fallen in with the times and now wears the clothes of the other sex. I know as pretty much an adoptive stepmother, my claim on his is smallest of all but i still wait, still pray...
Definitely the Prodigal. Husband, brother.
.."I have sinned against Heaven and against you, I am no longer worthy..."
Praying for a couple of those to come back home.
My chairs were never full. Infertility robbed me of both children, grandchildren, and even children-in-law. I wanted to adopt, but could never get my husband to agree. I have work, I have ministry and purpose, a measure of health and a enough money to make ends meet most months, but what I lack taunts me and never let's go. I keep waiting for grown up life to start, but I am 62. It's nearly over.
Joy, that’s a real empty chair. The kind nobody sees, because it was never filled in the first place. Infertility is a grief that doesn’t get a funeral, and it can haunt a faithful life. But I’m going to push back on one line: “It’s nearly over.””They shall still bring forth fruit in old age” (Psalm 92:14, KJV). If you’ve got breath, God isn’t done writing. You may not have children by blood, but you can still mother souls. Titus 2 is still in the Bible. And the Lord still “setteth the solitary in families” (Psalm 68:6, KJV) sometimes through women like you who make a table where one didn’t exist. Thank you for saying this out loud. I’m praying God turns that ache into an assignment, and gives you “beauty for ashes” (Isaiah 61:3, KJV).
Thank you for your kind words. "It's nearly over" is hyperbole. I am likely to match familial patterns and be reasonably functional until 80, so 17 years plus or minus and God willing. I just know that will go by in a flash. It's also possible we will see the glorious day before then and receive glorified bodies.
I do have a plan I am getting in place to live out my current commission from the Lord. The ache, though, I do not expect to leave me until I am in the next phase, absent from the body but present with the Lord. I based this on the message I believe He gave me that "You will not mind the lack of children in eternity." I do see that those who have children are subject to equal or greater aches as expectations often are opposed by reality.
Joy, I know exactly where you are because I am there too only I’m 68. We have “adopted” the 4 neighbor children. They are a good, Christian family, happy to share the kids with their adopted grandparents. I’m happy to have them as my husband has stage 4 cancer and am not sure how long he will be around. But, I’ll have those kids and their parents. Also, I try to enjoy my sisters grandchildren as much as possible even tho they live thousands of miles away. Please know that you are not alone! God hasn’t forgotten us either.
Thank you for your encouragement Martina.
I have five children. One has passed and was a believer so I’ll see him again. The one that is hardest on me is one who has chosen to end any contact. She hasn’t spoken to me in a little over four years. She’s my youngest and turned 30 last year.
This post really grabbed my heart.
Thank you brother for sharing that and reading this.
Thank you.
The chair was empty for years. His mother died when he was 28. He would call two or three times a year, sometimes. He might fill the chair at Christmas and Thanksgiving otherwise it was empty. Then three years ago the day after Thanksgiving I received a phone call from him. He was at the hospital in the ER didn’t know what was wrong. Thought it might be cancer but I wasn’t. Two weeks later still didn’t know; four weeks later still didn’t know. Finally the last of January a diagnosis—Amyloidosis. A disease I’d never heard about. No treatment. No cure. The chair became permanently empty February 13. My prodigal son came home January 30. He accepted Jesus as his Lord and Savior.
At 75, my table is empty almost every day. Sons have families of their own and my beloved wife passed into heaven three years ago. My encouragement to young Christian men is to enjoy the full table, rather than enduring it. Store up memories to treasure in case God gives you a long life with chronic loneliness.
My rule of adult children is wherever they are, you want them somewhere else. They come home for the holidays, leave the lights on, eat all your food, monopolize the remote to watch weird stuff, until you just want your routines back… until they pack up and go home, and they don’t make it to the end of the driveway before you wish they’d stay one more day.
Yes … I share the same life stage and nod with every sentence … One of the most bracing things I ever heard was “Healthy families self-destruct.” … but the drifting one still breaks a dads heart when we no longer can reach or connect or seem to matter to them at all … just hoping that someday they will at least know they were loved even if they didn’t want to stick around or talk much anymore. 💔
I have had many chairs at the table and through the chaos ... It was worth it. To pour in or not to pour in ... That is the question. Getting up in the middle of the night to feed & change my twins , while their mother who was on bed rest in a hospital for 6 weeks sleptbkeeping them safe. I can't imagine it any other way. Some chairs remain empty because of choices made by those who used to sit in them. 2 chairs will always be empty because they chose to leave this earth. Through the sorrow and the pain...God never left me. He got me through like He will if you lean in, let go & trust Him. Sounds impossible but it isn't. Tears are a language He understands...a crazy little (big) thing called love, God's love. In the deep waters of the soul, He remains tranquil. You can count on it. God hears your prayers 🙏 don't give up hope. Lean it and listen for that small voice and know that He is God.
My husband and I are in the "hard chair" season with our oldest. The drift feels so cold and permanent. I read this through tears...not really of sorrow, strangely. Tears that tell me there's a deep truth in these words. A Holy-Spirit-led truth that comes to bind up the broken hearted. So my heart says, thank you.
We're keeping the table set, all fixed up and ready to receive our son without hesitation or record keeping of who said or did what and why. We'll just pull out the chair and thank God for another chance to help feed his soul.
That phrase, "without hesitation or record keeping," that's the Father's heart right there. Love keeps no record of wrongs (1 Cor 13:5). You're doing the hard thing. Keep the chair ready. Keep the table set. And when he comes back, don't rehearse the lecture. Just pull out the chair. Praying for your family.
Thank you...
All I think of is loss. Within the last couple months, a Grandma and Uncle died. My remaining grandparents will go soon; Grandpa is 90 and has been in the hospital since Christmas, Grandma is a year behind and is basically blind and with all the other issues common at her age.