A Letter to a Man Who Needs It…
Set Your Face Like Flint
I pulled up to a stoplight with my infant in the back seat, determined to make it to Home Depot and back home before the furnace repair company showed up.
Context matters.
We’d been without heat for five days in a Minnesota winter that hovered between –10 and 20 degrees. The furnace had gone down for the third time this year. Parts were “supposed” to arrive within two hours. That was the previous Thursday. It was now Tuesday of the following week.
I’m not complaining—just setting the scene.
At this point, the only way we had heat was if I manually lit the gas with a hand torch (something I didn’t know you could do before this year), then shut the system down once the house warmed up so it wouldn’t flood with gas like it had earlier—hence the original service call. New control panel. New ignition probe. New burners. New home warranty company.
That was problem number one.
Then, over the weekend—with another family coming over for Sunday brunch—the oven stopped working. Error code F-09. No idea what that means. (ChatGPT does, thank God. Still not something I could fix myself.)
So:
No furnace — check
No oven — check
Still, I was in decent spirits. I kept repeating something I’ve learned is essential for me when I start to feel overwhelmed, avoidant, or tempted to check out:
“What’s the next thing in front of you?”
Right now, that thing was driving to Home Depot to buy a dehumidifier for the kitchen. The wood floorboards had started to warp from moisture—maybe from the backed-up dishwasher, maybe from my nine-year-old daughter who faithfully does dishes each night with… generous water usage.
I hopped in our van—one of those modern marvels with the “fuel-saving” auto start-stop feature (not really fuel-saving; I’ve checked). Every time you stop, the engine shuts off. Usually it restarts.
This time, it didn’t.
All the electronics were still on. So it wasn’t the battery. I pushed the big round Start/Stop button again.
Nothing.
Again.
Still nothing.
The car wouldn’t even shift into neutral so I could push it out of traffic.
I sat there, seatbelt on, six-month-old in the back, hazards flashing, cars honking, then swerving around me once they realized I wasn’t moving.
The last thing I wanted to add to my list of setbacks was getting rear-ended by someone scrolling Instagram at forty miles an hour.
So I bailed.
I grabbed the car seat and walked into the golden arches next door.
I felt like crying.
The Small Forks Matter
Standing at the giant self-serve screen, I figured I should order something—if I was going to borrow their chair and their heat bill for awhile.
My eyes landed on a large mocha.
It was only $4.50.
And I deserved it.
This week sucked.
Then I stopped.
Was that entitlement talking?
Life’s been hard, so I should dump fifty grams of sugar into my nervous system to feel better?
I ordered a black coffee with a little cream.
$1.89.
A small choice—but an important one.
Strength Needs a Container
The tow truck came. I got a ride home. The baby napped.
The day was still young, and there was plenty to do—but inside, I felt pent-up. Clear-minded, but emotionally constipated.
So I did something I’ve learned to do instead of numbing or powering through.
I called a friend.
A man I trust. A man who can hold weight.
I shared what was happening—and then something surprising happened.
I cried.
For the first time this year. (It’s February. Last year, I think I cried three times total.)
He didn’t rush me. He didn’t fix it. He didn’t minimize it.
He created a container.
We prayed. Took authority over my home, my family, our work. Over the blessing that’s coming. Over the opposition that’s real.
I cried more.
And something shifted.
I felt calmer.
Resolved.
Grounded.
Determined.
Was it spiritual?
I don’t know.
But as a mentor tells me: “Deal with the spiritual first.”
I Was Made for This
Is it just bad luck? Coincidence? “When it rains, it pours”?
Maybe.
But I know this much:
I was made for this.
Fashioned by the loving arms of my Heavenly Father to enter the breach of this moment—this season, this day—and lead it, rather than letting it lead me.
The breathwork I practiced when my anxiety peaked helped calm my body.
The prayer made me feel safe—and powerful.
The tears helped me let go.
Not just of the frustration of the last few days—but of deeper grief.
Some of the pain of my son’s cancer treatment last year.
Some family division.
Some of the stress of leading a company in a growth phase.
I let go.
And just was.
The Reframe That Changed Everything
Here’s the reframe that’s become central for me:
This is happening for a reason—and I can handle it.
Not white-knuckle it.
Not avoid it.
Not escape it.
Not fight it.
But go through it. Submit to it. Let it forge me.
This will make me better.
So now, when my instinct says “I want out of this,” I respond with something new:
“I want this.”
I want difficulty.
Friction.
Pressure.
Pain.
Because I don’t want to reach the end of my life and say, “Damn. That was easy.”
But that’s how I lived for a long time.
How I Used to Live
I lived wishing God would just take my porn problem away—so I wouldn’t have to deal with it anymore.
I lived hoping for a high-paying job so I could buy comfort and distraction and call it happiness.
I lived wanting the view from the mountaintop without the climb.
Where’s the elevator, God?
Is that you too?
Resisting the hard.
Wishing for the well-traveled road.
Hoping Jesus will leave you in the boat because those waves look… unfriendly.
Calling, Not Comfort
We’re not all called to start businesses or do something flashy and novel to be faithful Christian men.
But I do know this:
The road to heaven has two ditches.
One is obvious: sin, lust, pride, pleasure.
The other is more subtle—and more dangerous for many Christians:
All the good things we were never called to pursue.
I think more men run aground there than in the obvious ditch.
As Fr. Mike Schmitz says:
Life balance is running 110% in the direction of your calling.
An as Karen Eubank says in Free Burma Rangers (a must watch if you haven’t): “I’ve learned that the safest place to be is in the middle of God’s purpose for your life.”
The crisis of our time isn’t lack of opportunity or resource.
It’s lack of identity.
We don’t know who we are.
Why we were made.
How our lives fit into God’s larger story.
If You’re “In It” Right Now
If today feels heavy—
If you’re in a season you didn’t choose—
If you’re standing at a stoplight wondering how much more you can hold—
I want you to know:
I’m with you.
And if something in you is stirring—
A beckoning for more—
A call to step out of the boat—
Then get up.
Get moving.
Expect storms.
Expect resistance.
Expect opposition.
And do not be stopped.
Set your face like flint.
Keep.
On.
Going.
I’m coming with you.
— Joe