Yesterday afternoon, 4:07 PM. Izzie kicks her backpack out of her way, steps over her soccer cleats, and navigates around three cereal bowls, a bag of empty Doritos, her favorite pair of Chuck Taylor’s and a lone Birkenstock she told me yesterday she’d take care of, all left on the floor between the front door and the living room. She plays human Frogger, jumping in, over and around her own mess, making a beeline for the kitchen. Reaching into the pantry she snatches a Blueberry Pop-Tart, tossing the wrapper on the kitchen counter.

“Hey kiddo, please pick up your stuff.”

She turns around. Gives me a blank teen stare, acting like I spoke to her in Swahili.

“Dude.” Frustration brings out my California upbringing. “Did you hear me? Pick up your stuff, please.”

Turning around, mouth full of Pop-Tart, Izzie answers, “I didn’t know.” Swallowing, she asks, “You really wanted me to do that?”

Fifteen years old. Same house, same rules since she could walk. Now she’s a teenager and I’m wondering where her brain went.

I stared at her, probably longer than I needed to. Did I say any unkind things? No. But I really wanted to. Instead, I held my tongue.

“I didn’t know.”

Three words. Echoing in my head for weeks. Not just because she uses them like a well-worn Monopoly get-out-of-jail-free card. Because I use them too. In my case, these words matter way more than backpacks and cereal bowls.

Jesus told a story about a rich man who lived in luxury while a poor man, Lazarus, sat dying outside his gate. Every day, the rich man stepped over Lazarus, seeing his need, ignoring it. Choosing comfort over compassion.

Both died. Abraham welcomed Lazarus into comfort. Flames tormented the rich man.

“Father Abraham!” he called across the unbridgeable chasm. “Send Lazarus to cool my tongue!”

Abraham refused. “You had your good things. Lazarus had bad things. Now he finds comfort and you suffer.”

The rich man panicked. “Then send him back to warn my five brothers!”

“They have Moses and the Prophets,” Abraham said.

“But if someone rises from the dead, they’ll repent!”

Abraham delivered his final words: “If they won’t listen to Moses and the Prophets, they won’t be convinced even if someone rises from the dead.”

His “I didn’t know” excuse crumbled because he ignored available truth.

Just like I know what Jesus commands but act surprised when it gets uncomfortable.

I work with people struggling with substance use disorders. People whose lives fall apart daily. At work, praying in the facility could cost me my job. Professional boundaries keep me quiet when I should speak up.

But watching people fight for their lives while I stay silent about the one thing that could change their eternity? My “I didn’t know” excuse sounds hollow.

My neighbor battles through divorce and custody issues. Over the fence we talk about lawn mowers, truck problems, Saturday Night Live. Never once do I mention that following Jesus carried me through my worst seasons. Never bring up how prayer changes everything.

Talking about faith feels weird. Unnatural. What if he thinks I’m one of those Christians? What if he stops talking to me? What if word spreads that I’m some Bible-thumping know-it-all?

“I didn’t know I was supposed to share my faith with him.”

Same three words Izzie uses. Same deflection. Except I know exactly what Jesus said about sharing good news with everyone. I choose comfortable silence over uncomfortable conversations.

Jesus didn’t whisper His great commission: “Go and make disciples of all nations.”

Not just pastors. Everyone who follows Him.

This morning, Izzie’s bowls sit in the kitchen sink. She knows they belong in the dishwasher. She chooses not to put them there.

I know where my faith belongs too.

The question isn’t whether I know what Jesus told me to do.

The question is whether I’ll stop using my daughter’s excuse and actually do it.

#DadLife #Faith #RealTalk #Uncomfortable #NoExcuses