When the World Came Together

Every day at 5:00 pm, the front door would swing open and Dad would stumble inside after a heavy day at the office, looking like he’d just gone twelve rounds with Ivan Drago. His briefcase would barely touch the floor before his little boy—just four years old—would come thundering down the stairs like a tiny Tasmanian Devil.

“Daddy’s home, Daddy’s home!” he’d shout, his voice reaching decibels that would make Axl Rose jealous.

He’d launch himself into his father’s arms with the grace of a flying squirrel, wrapping his little hands around his neck.

“Play with me, Daddy! Please, please play with me!”

But his father, who felt like he’d been hit by the DeLorean at 88 mph, could barely muster a smile.

“Not now, buddy. Maybe after dinner, okay? Daddy’s tired. Like, really tired. Like Ferris Bueller on his ninth sick day tired.”

The little boy would slide down from his arms, his enthusiasm dimming only slightly.

“Okay, Daddy. After supper. Then we’ll play, right? You promise? Pinky swear? Cross your heart and hope to… well, not die, but like, step on a Lego?”

“Right,” Dad would say, already loosening his tie as he headed upstairs, moving with all the speed and enthusiasm of a sloth on Nyquil.

After dinner—especially after those heavy Sunday roasts with enough carbs to fuel the Starship Enterprise—Dad would migrate to the living room like a salmon returning to spawn.

Except instead of spawning, he was about to become one with the couch.

Within minutes, he’d be sprawled across it like he’d been teleported there by Scotty, remote in hand, eyes already glazing over as the television murmured something about whether Ross and Rachel were on a break.

The little boy would finish his last bite of dessert and come rushing into the living room, bouncing like Tigger on a sugar high.

“Daddy! Time to play!”

But Dad would already be asleep, snoring softly, his mouth hanging open like he was trying to catch flies. The remote dangled from his hand like a dead man’s last grip on civilization.

The boy would stand there for a moment, his smile fading faster than Vanilla Ice’s career.

Then he’d quietly grab a blanket from the back of the couch, drape it over his father with the tenderness of E.T. saying goodbye to Elliott, and tiptoe away.

This went on for weeks. Then months. And quite frankly, the little boy was getting tired of it. His frustration level was reaching “I’m going to hold my breath until I turn blue” territory.

So, he decided that this Sunday would be different. This Sunday, no matter what, he would get his Daddy to play with him. He was more determined than Kevin McCallister defending his house. More focused than Daniel-san waxing on and waxing off.

What he didn’t know was that this particular Sunday was Super Bowl Sunday—the one day of the year when every father in America transformed into a couch-dwelling creature more protective of their TV time than Gollum with the One Ring.

Sunday morning arrived. The little boy woke with a sense of mission that would make the A-Team jealous.

I love it when a plan comes together, he thought, though he’d never actually seen the show because his bedtime was 7:30.

Downstairs, Dad was already in the living room, preparing his sanctuary with the precision of a NASA engineer.

The TV was angled just right—no glare, perfect sight lines from every cushion. His bowl of Ruffles sat within perfect reaching distance on the coffee table. A two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew stood ready like a faithful squire. The remote was positioned strategically on his right side for maximum control efficiency.

He’d even set up a decoy ham sandwich on a TV tray to make it look like he was being “productive” if Mom asked.

He settled into the couch with a satisfied sigh that would make Homer Simpson proud, cracking open his drink just as the pregame show began.

Life was good. Life was perfect.

That’s when his little boy came barreling into the room like the Kool-Aid Man.

“DADDY! OH YEAHHH!”

Before Dad could react, the boy had launched himself into his lap with the accuracy of a heat-seeking missile, snatched the remote from his hand like he was Indiana Jones grabbing the idol, and—click—the screen went black.

“Hey! HEY!” Dad protested, reaching for the remote as if it were the last helicopter out of Jurassic Park.

But his son was already giggling, tickling his sides, bouncing on his knees like he’d just discovered a trampoline.

“Come on, Daddy! Let’s play! We’re gonna play today no matter what! You promised! Remember? You said ‘right’ which legally means you promised!”

Dad felt frustration rising in his chest like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man expanding through Manhattan.

The Super Bowl. The ONE game all year. The ONE THING. He could already hear his buddies at work tomorrow: “Did you see that play in the third quarter?” And he’d have to pretend he’d seen it. He’d have to lie.

But looking down at his son’s hopeful face, those bright eyes full of trust and expectation—eyes that hadn’t yet learned what a first down was—he couldn’t bring himself to scold him.

He loved this little boy more than he loved football. Which was saying something, because he really loved football. Like, he’d named his fantasy team “The Touchdown Turbos” and actually took it seriously.

He needed a plan. A diversion. Something to keep his son occupied for a few hours—just long enough to watch the game in peace.

Think, think! He looked around the room frantically, feeling like MacGyver but without the mullet or the resourcefulness.

And then his eyes fell on the magazine lying on the coffee table. God did? In all the chaos and brokenness of this world, He sent His Son. He focused on loving people, one at a time. Healing them. Restoring them. Teaching us that the kingdom of God isn’t built with grand gestures, but with love shown to the person right in front of us.
Love your neighbor. Love your children. Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.
Dad’s treasure had been in all the wrong places. He’d been building his life around everything except what mattered most.

Slowly—like he was disarming a bomb, or making the most important decision of his life—Dad reached for the remote.

He looked at his son’s expectant face, still glowing with pride and hope. Then, on the television, John Madden was probably drawing circles around something with a digital pen.

He looked at the remote in his hand. Then back at his boy.

His son. His little boy who wouldn’t be little forever. Who was learning right now, in this very moment, what was important to his father? What Dad valued more—him, or a game?
Dad pressed the button.

Click.

The screen went dark.

“You know what, buddy?” Dad said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “You just taught me something really important. Something I think Jesus has been trying to teach me for a while now.”

His son looked up at him, puzzled but attentive.
“See, I’ve been so worried about all the big stuff—work, money, what’s happening in the world, even this game—that I’ve been missing what’s right here.” He tapped his son’s chest gently. “You. The most important thing in my world.”

He pulled his son close, feeling the weight of him, the warmth, the realness of this little person who trusted him completely. “Jesus said that unless we become like little children, we can’t enter the kingdom of heaven. And I think part of that means seeing what you see—that fixing the world starts with loving the people right in front of us. Being present. With showing up. By keeping our promises.”

The little boy wrapped his arms around his father’s neck, squeezing tight.

Dad felt tears prick his eyes. Not the manly, single-tear thing from the movies, but real tears.

“I’m sorry I’ve been too tired to play. I’m sorry I’ve made you wait. You deserve better than that.”

“It’s okay, Daddy,” his son whispered into his neck.

“No, it’s not. But it’s going to change. Starting right now.” Dad stood up, lifting his son with him.

“Now… what do you want to play?”

The little boy’s face lit up brighter than the Griswolds’ Christmas lights, brighter than the sun, brighter than anything Dad had ever seen. “Really, Daddy? Really?! You mean it?”

“Really. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart. I promise.”

“YAY!”

And for the rest of that Sunday afternoon, while the Super Bowl played to an empty room, a father and son built block towers that reached toward heaven, chased each other around the backyard until they collapsed in the grass laughing, and had a lightsaber duel with wrapping paper tubes that would make George Lucas jealous.

Dad realized something as they played: he felt more alive, more at peace, more right than he had in months. This was what he’d been missing. Not rest—but joy. Not escape—but connection. Not the noise of the world—but the simple, pure love of his child.

This was better than any game. Better than any victory. This was a victory.

Later that evening, after tucking his son into bed and watching him fall asleep with a smile still on his face, Dad knelt beside his own bed and prayed. He thanked God for the wisdom that comes from the mouths of children. He asked for forgiveness for his misplaced priorities. And he asked for the strength to remember what matters most.

Fix the child, and the world comes together.
Love the person in front of you, and everything else falls into place.

It’s not complicated. It’s actually beautifully simple.

We just forget sometimes. We get distracted by the noise, the demands, the illusion that everything else is more urgent than the love right in front of us.

But God keeps sending us reminders. Sometimes through a sermon. Sometimes through a verse. Sometimes through a four-year-old with a roll of scotch tape and a simple truth that could change everything.
“And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.” – Matthew 18:5
(P.S. Dad did sneak upstairs later and catch the highlights on SportsCenter. He’s only human, after all. But he watched them with a smile, knowing he’d already won the only game that mattered.)

“And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.” – Matthew 18:5
(P.S. Dad did sneak upstairs later and catch the highlights on SportsCenter. He’s only human, after all. But he watched them with a smile, knowing he’d already won the only game that mattered.)