I used to think I was a patient person. Then I became a dad.
My daughter turned one this year and in less than 12 months, she’s taught me more about myself than any book, podcast or sermon ever has. The transformation has been slow, subtle—and irreversible.
What’s changed isn’t just how I spend my time (though now, it’s largely made up of cucumber slices, Bluey and trying to figure out why she’s crying). What’s changed is how I see the world. And in many ways, how I see God. Here are just a few ways this tiny human has changed me.
The wonder in the ordinary
The thing no one really prepares you for as a parent is how ordinary it all is. It’s not always some magical montage of cuddles. It’s dirty nappies and snot-covered faces. It’s the same book being read a dozen times. It’s coaxing her into her car seat while she’s having a meltdown because I won’t let her bring the mop in with her. And—most distressing of all—it’s leaving her at daycare with strangers while she cries her heart out at the sight of me leaving.
But even in the repetition—maybe especially in it—there’s something deeply meaningful.
The other day, as we were leaving daycare, she suddenly looked up at the sky and in seeing a plane, her eyes lit up and she uttered a “wooowwww!” It was the first time I’d seen her look up—for all I knew, she was discovering the sky for the first time ever. Ever since then, she’s been fascinated by planes, clouds and birds. Now, whenever a willie wagtail, crimson rosella or butcher bird alights on our fence, she points to it, exclaiming excitedly “bur-bur!”
There’s something holy about watching a child discover the world. It makes me feel like I’m discovering it again too. My daughter is reminding me not to take for granted what’s familiar, not to allow life to pass me by.
Learning to be her safe place
One of the biggest lessons I’ve had to learn (and keep re-learning) is that I’m not just her protector or provider—I’m her emotional anchor.
When she’s tired or overstimulated or inconsolable because I gave her toast instead of blueberries, logic doesn’t help. What she needs in that moment is presence. Calm. Reassurance. In the middle of the night, when her mum is too tired to nurse her and what my daughter needs is sleep, I will often hold her—as she screams, thrashes about, unable to process the complex cocktail of emotions she’s experiencing.
That’s hard. It requires something deeper than patience—it calls for grace. And truthfully, I’ve only been able to give that kind of grace because I’ve received it myself. If you’re not familiar with the term, grace is simply unearned favour. It’s the forgiveness that comes from a friend when you’ve done nothing to make up for your mistakes. It’s the patience of a parent despite your bad behaviour. It’s the love that isn’t fair, isn’t equitable and can only be explained as a divine gift. I’ve come to believe that God parents us the same way—meeting us in our tantrums, our confusion, our neediness. Not with distance or disappointment, but with love that stays. I’m reminded of Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son, who was so rebellious, so ungrateful, and yet had a father who loved him with an enduring, patient, selfless love. That’s the kind of dad God is. That’s the kind of dad I want to be.
My mirror
They say kids are sponges, but sometimes they’re more like mirrors.
When I’m short with her, when I’m distracted, when I reach for my phone instead of her eyes—she notices. Not always in words. She sees it—she feels it. And it stings. Not in a guilt-heavy, beat-myself-up kind of way, but in a way that humbles me. I realise just how much my presence—or absence—matters.
It’s funny—before I became a dad, I thought parenting was mostly about raising children. I’ve come to see it’s just as much about being raised myself. My daughter is refining me. She exposes my impatience, softens my edges and teaches me to live more slowly and with more wonder. I find myself praying not just for her safety and growth, but for mine—that I’ll become the kind of father she’ll trust and feel safe with.
I don’t want to be perfect. That’s not possible. But I do want to be real. I want to model for her what love looks like in action—especially when I mess up. Saying sorry, slowing down, putting the phone away, laughing more, forgiving quickly; those are the moments that will shape her far more than anything I say. Recently, my wife suggested we do tech-free meals. No phones, no TV—just each other and the food. It’s not the most innovative idea, but it has been amazing to connect with each other—to practise being fully present. Even though my daughter can’t speak full sentences, I can tell how much more engaged she is with us—when she’s not throwing bits of broccoli on the floor.
The legacy I want to leave
Someday she’ll be grown. She’ll have memories—some vivid, some hazy—of what it was like to be in our home. To be around me. I had a moment when she was only a few months old where I realised that this tiny baby will one day be a kid—then a teenager—then a young woman—and beyond. It’s an obvious fact, I know, but it blew me away to consider that I didn’t just hold a tiny baby in my arms: I held a full person with future dreams and aspirations, future joys and sorrows, incredible potential: all waiting to happen. Her whole life is ahead of her, and I was suddenly filled with emotion. I became both excited and terrified: excited to discover the kind of person she would one day become and terrified because of how fragile she was.
When she is all grown up, what I hope she remembers isn’t how many things I got right or wrong. I hope she remembers how it felt to be my daughter. That she felt safe. That she felt delighted in. That she knew—deep down, no matter what—that she was deeply loved. At the end of the day, the kind of father I want to be is the kind whose love points beyond me. Not just to my own intentions, but to a God who’s even more faithful, more patient, more kind. I want my daughter to know that she has a Dad in heaven who loves her, as well as a dad on earth who’s doing his best to be more like his heavenly Dad.
Jesse Herford is a pastor and associate editor for the Australia/New Zealand edition of Signs of the Times. He loves his family, cooking, board games and his miniature schnauzer, Banjo. A version of this article first appeared on the Signs of the Times Australia/New Zealand website and is republished with permission.