Ministry Starts at Home

Ministry Starts at Home

Over time, I have realized that my most important ministry is not the one with a title or a paycheck. It is the one that takes place within my own home. I serve in several ministries, but the most enduring lessons on presence, grace, and spiritual care come from my daughters. They are the backbone of my ministry. When I neglect to pour into them, everything else begins to run dry.

This understanding did not come from a single moment of revelation. It has been a gradual unfolding, shaped by many small, ordinary encounters.

Most nights, I read to my girls before bed. We start with a passage from Scripture and then move to whatever book we are reading together. One night, I was exhausted and tempted to skip it. My younger daughter looked at me and said, “Read me the story of Jeremiah and the Dirty Underwear.” It is her favorite. (For context, that is not the actual title of the passage, but it is what we call it at home.) Every time we read it, we laugh. It is one of the more obscure stories in Scripture, but somehow it has become ours, a sacred inside joke wrapped in the smell of bedtime and the sound of pages turning. I realized in that moment that the spiritual formation happening in our house is rarely formal or planned. It is hidden in the laughter and the small rituals we keep, even when I am tired.

My older daughter and I often talk about her world: school, sports, and friends. I try to listen more than I speak, though I am not always successful. During one of those talks, we found ourselves deep in conversation about a problem she was facing. When I asked if she wanted to know what God might have to say about it, she rolled her eyes and said, “You are going to tell me anyway.” I promised I would not unless she wanted me to. After thinking for a moment, she said she did. So I told her. It was one of those quiet, unremarkable moments that felt sacred because it was built on trust. She knew she could invite me, and by extension, invite God, into her process.

My daughters also mirror me in uncomfortable but necessary ways. I have a quick temper and a loose tongue, and when I slip, they do not hesitate to call me out. Our running joke is that whenever I say something profane, one of them deadpans, “Says the chaplain.” It always makes us laugh, but it also resets me. That silly inside joke has become one of the most effective accountability tools I have ever known. They remind me who I am and who I am still becoming.

Then there was the day my younger daughter asked, “Do you think your patients know you get paid to be nice to them?” I laughed until I cried. She knows me well enough to tease me like that, and I love it. What matters most, though, is that both of my daughters know every side of me, my professionalism, my flaws, my faith, and my fatigue, and they still trust me. They still come to me with their questions. When they do, I know they are not really seeking me. They are reaching for God through a familiar path. That realization humbles me every time.

I often wrestle with the feeling that I am not good enough to do this work, that someone else must be more holy, more disciplined, or more worthy of wearing the title “chaplain.” But my daughters see me fully, with all of my imperfections and rough edges, and they still see value in what I do. That is grace in motion. It gives me courage, hope, and perspective.

What I am learning through them is that ministry does not demand perfection. It asks for consistency, patience, acceptance, and love. I cannot give the world what I withhold from my own home. My first congregation is my family. My daughters remind me that when we love God, it becomes impossible not to love His creations, including ourselves.