Andrea and I just returned from the 2025 FamilyLife Love Like You Mean It Cruise where we had the opportunity to lead a breakout session for married couples entitled "The Power of a 'Welcome Home' Relationship."
In preparation for this session, I was reminded of a moment in our marriage when I utterly failed to welcome Andrea upon re-entry into our home.
First, you have to understand the context. There's a weekly phenomenon common to most pastors. I felt it every Sunday after the final sermon of the weekend had been preached, the last hand had been shaken, and the last child had shut the last door in the minivan, safely enclosing and reuniting our family on the way home from church.
For me, the next 15 seconds were the most crucial time of the entire week. I had labored for hours throughout the week to prepare that sermon—carefully exegeting the text, crafting a discernible outline, supplying colorful illustrations, and most importantly, calling for a response of faith and repentance from believers and unbelievers alike. Sermon preparation is hard work and can feel like a thankless job, especially for recovering perfectionists as insecure as me.
That's why 15 seconds of silence from my family upon re-entry was almost unbearable. I'm sure they had no idea how I was beating myself up with thoughts of how terrible my sermon was, not to mention the devil's lies coming at me in those 15 seconds. I wish I could say that I was mature enough to selflessly turn my attention to my family, understanding that they were my most important congregation. No, I needed someone to affirm that my work was not in vain. Finally, I appealed to Andrea for help. I said, "Every week when those doors shut, within 15 seconds I need to hear you say something like this: 'That was the most amazing sermon I have ever heard! Tim Keller, John Piper, Charles Spurgeon couldn't have said it any better. I will never be the same. All the work you put into that sermon served the people so well. Thank you. I'm so glad you are my pastor.'"
I told her she could tell me the truth later, but in those 15 seconds, I needed someone to at least validate a reason for my existence. The result? Although I don't think I've ever heard Andrea say, "That is the best sermon I've ever heard," she has been quick to welcome me with words of affirmation upon re-entry.
A few weeks after my infantile plea, I stumbled through the entryway of our home after an exhausting day of administrative meetings in the church office. I grunted something at Andrea, who was in the kitchen preparing dinner. I plopped myself on the couch, grabbed the TV remote, and turned on ESPN to escape reality.
A few minutes later, Andrea came over to the couch, grabbed the remote, and turned the TV off. She knelt beside me, grabbed my face, and said something like this: "Welcome home. You know how important those first 15 seconds are to you after you preach that sermon-thingy that you think is so important to you? Well, I don't think you've noticed that this house is spotless. All of our kids are still alive...barely. I've been in that kitchen for an hour fixing your favorite meal. THAT'S MY SERMON. I would appreciate some acknowledgment that you see me and value my work too."
Busted! I had failed to use the power of welcome to affirm Andrea upon my re-entry, even though I knew how much power it had to affirm me.
15 seconds can make all the difference. In every relationship, we've discovered that these small moments of recognition, though brief, have the power to strengthen our bond and remind us that our individual "sermons"—whatever form they take—matter deeply to the one we love.
Comments