I woke up at 4 a.m. last Tuesday to Elizabeth crying. Not the sharp, urgent cry that means something's wrong — just the low, rhythmic fuss that says she's awake and wants company. Jenn stirred, but I waved her off. She'd been up with her at 1:30. My turn.

I picked Elizabeth up, felt her settle against my chest, and walked her to the living room. The house was still. Cecelia asleep down the hall. The hum of the AC the only sound besides Elizabeth's breathing. I sat in the chair by the window, her tiny weight warm against me, and something in the quiet hit me hard: This is it. This is the whole thing.

Not in some poetic, Instagram-caption way. I mean it literally. The middle of the night, when no one's watching. When there's no productivity to show for it, no outcome to measure. Just you and a two-month-old who needs you to be there, and nowhere else.

And the question that came up — the one I've been wrestling with all week — is this: Do I actually believe that this moment matters as much as the ones that feel important?

The Tyranny of the Urgent

I'm wired to move. To train, to build, to check things off. I wake up most days with a list in my head before my feet hit the floor. It's not a bad thing — discipline has served me well. But somewhere in the last few weeks, since Elizabeth was born, I've felt this pull between two versions of what matters.

There's the version that says: Get after it. The work doesn't do itself. Be disciplined. Be present later, when there's margin.

And then there's the version that whispers, usually at 4 a.m. with a newborn on my chest: This is the margin. This is the moment. It won't come back.

I'm not talking about quitting my routines or letting everything slide. I still train. I still pray in the morning. I still show up where I need to show up. But I'm realizing that the posture I bring to the interruptions — the middle-of-the-night wake-ups, the toddler meltdown right when I'm about to walk out the door, the request from Jenn to just sit with her for ten minutes — that posture reveals what I actually believe about what's sacred.

What I'm Learning (Slowly)

Elizabeth fell back asleep in my arms around 4:30. I could've put her down and gone back to bed, maybe squeezed in another hour of sleep before my alarm. But I didn't. I just sat there. Held her. Prayed quietly. Thanked God for the weight of her, the trust she has that I'll be there when she needs me.

And I realized: this is the training that matters most right now. Not the deadlift. Not the discipline to wake up early. The training to be present when everything in me wants to move on to the next thing.

Jenn and I talk about this a lot lately. How easy it is to be in the room but not actually there. How you can hold your kid and still be thinking about the next hour, the next task, the next block of time when you'll finally feel like you're winning. We're both guilty of it. And we're both trying to do better.

I don't have this figured out. Some mornings I'm still impatient when Cecelia takes twenty minutes to put her shoes on. Some nights I'm mentally gone by the time Jenn's telling me about her day. But that morning with Elizabeth, something shifted. I felt the weight of the gift. The responsibility. The fleeting, unrepeatable nature of right now.

The Whole Thing

There's a verse that's been sitting with me this week: "So teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom." Psalm 90:12. I used to read that and think it meant: make the most of your time. Be productive. Don't waste it.

But I think it means something different now. I think it means: know what season you're in. Know what's in front of you. And don't spend it wishing you were somewhere else, doing something that feels more significant.

Because this — the 4 a.m. wake-up, the slow rock in the dark, the surrender of your sleep and your schedule for the sake of a little person who can't do anything for themselves — this is the significant thing.

It's easy to miss. It doesn't come with applause or progress photos or anything you can put on a scorecard. But it's the whole thing. The trust. The presence. The quiet obedience to love someone well when no one else is watching.

I put Elizabeth back in her bassinet at 5:00. She stirred, sighed, and settled. I stood there for a minute, watching her chest rise and fall, and I said a prayer I've been saying a lot lately: God, help me see what matters. Help me not miss it.

I'm learning. Slowly. But I'm learning.

Your neighbor,
Rick