The Power of Presence

Think about the people who have shaped your life the most.

Maybe it was a parent. A teacher. A coach. A pastor. A grandparent. A friend.

For most of us, it isn’t a speech. It isn’t a lesson. It isn’t even a single conversation.

It’s that they were there.

They showed up. Again. And again. And again.

Before they ever changed our lives with their words, they changed them with their presence.

I know the power of presence better than most.

Because I grew up in its absence.

In Chapter 3, I told you about the armor I wore as a boy, and the day it went on — watching my father cheer for someone else’s son. Now I need to tell you the rest, because the rest of that story is what this chapter is about.

My father would disappear for weeks and resurface like nothing happened. I would be outside riding my bike, see him heading for the door, and beg him to take me with him.

“Next time.” It was always “next time” and never “get in.”

There was a woman named Rosalind. When we were in elementary school, she would show up in random places — our schoolyard, our grandmother’s block — and just stand there, staring at my brother and me. Not hiding. She wanted us to see her looking. I didn’t know who she was, but I knew something was wrong. My father was driving a strange car in those days. The same car I later saw her driving away in. I overheard my parents arguing about her, my father insisting she was crazy.

But crazy people don’t show up that deliberately. Crazy people don’t stare at children like they’re delivering a message.

Then came the day he took my brother and me to her apartment. He walked into a bedroom and changed into comfortable clothes. Like it was home. Nothing was said. He was answering a question we hadn’t asked yet — showing us where he goes when he says he’ll “be right back.” Where he goes when he says “next time.”

She wasn’t crazy. She was just tired of being invisible.

And then, in that yard, her son did flips like an Olympic champion while my father cheered with a joy I had never been able to locate when it came to me.

I’ve turned these memories over for more than forty years. They still show up like unwanted guests. Sometimes in dreams. Sometimes a movie triggers it. Sometimes I’ll hear men on a podcast talking matter-of-factly about their other women — almost proudly — and it comes rushing back.

I thought for a long time that Rosalind was the story.

She wasn’t. She was just the thread. And when you pull a thread long enough, the whole thing unravels.

The real story is about a boy who watched his father cheer for someone else — and spent the better part of his life trying to figure out why he wasn’t worth cheering for too.

My brother and I walked to our games alone, all across West Philly. If it was too far, we caught a ride with the coach — or we didn’t go. We figured it out. We always figured it out. Because we had to.

I was a pretty good athlete. My brother too.

No one showed up.

For years afterward, I went looking for what I didn’t get from him. I found it — or tried to — in coaches who pushed me, teachers who saw something in me, bosses who gave me a shot. I didn’t fully understand what I was doing. I just knew I was hungry for something I couldn’t name.

It turns out the thing I was hungry for had a name.

Validation.

The simple, steady message that you are enough. That you are seen. That someone who was supposed to show up — showed up. Hear this, whoever you are: the young people in your gym, your classroom, your church, your home are hungry for the same thing. Some of them are walking to their games alone right now. Some of them are scanning the stands. Some of them stopped scanning years ago, and that’s worse.

You cannot fix their families. You cannot rewrite their fathers.

But you can show up. And you would be amazed at what showing up does to a hungry heart.

I’m evidence.

Years after graduation, very few athletes remember every play. Students rarely remember every lecture. Children often forget the gifts they received.

But they almost never forget how someone made them feel.

They remember the teacher who believed in them. The coach who refused to give up on them. The pastor who called after everyone else disappeared. The parent who sat beside them during the hardest nights.

I can still hear the sound of my father cheering — for someone else. Forty years later. That’s how long presence and its absence echo.

Presence creates memories that information never can.

One of the greatest gifts we can give another person is our attention.

Not half our attention. Not what’s left after checking our phone. Undivided attention.

In a world that constantly competes for our focus, attention has become one of the purest expressions of love.

When you look someone in the eye, listen without interrupting, remember their story, follow up days later — you’re communicating something powerful.

You matter.

Sometimes healing begins long before solutions. Sometimes it begins when someone finally feels seen.

The entire Gospel can be summarized in one incredible truth.

God came near.

He didn’t send another list of rules. He didn’t remain distant. He entered our world.

Jesus walked dusty roads. He shared meals. He laughed. He cried. He attended weddings. He touched lepers. He held children. He stopped for people everyone else hurried past. Think about that. The Creator of the universe wasn’t too busy to be interrupted.

Maybe interruptions weren’t interruptions at all.

Maybe they were the ministry.

This is what saved me, by the way. My earthly father said “next time.” My heavenly Father said “I am with you always.” One of those promises held. And the people God sent me — the coaches, the teachers, the ones who kept their word — were how He kept it.

As leaders, we often feel pressure to solve every problem.

Someone is hurting — we offer advice. Someone is grieving — we search for the right words. Someone is struggling — we immediately begin planning solutions.

I’ve learned something over the years.

People don’t always need answers first. Sometimes they need company.

Job’s friends made their greatest contribution before they spoke. For seven days, they simply sat with him. Their ministry was their presence. Unfortunately, they eventually replaced listening with explaining.

Many of us make the same mistake.

Sometimes the greatest act of leadership is resisting the urge to fix.

Nobody could have fixed my childhood with advice. But every adult who simply stayed put a crack in the lie my father taught me.

People rarely reveal what’s happening in their hearts until they believe it’s safe. And safety doesn’t happen because we demand honesty. It happens because we’ve earned trust.

The people we lead are constantly asking, Will you still be here tomorrow?

I asked that question of every adult in my life until I was grown. Most of them never knew they were being tested. The ones who passed didn’t do anything spectacular.

They just came back.

Consistency answers that question better than words ever will.

Jesus was never in a hurry.

Crowds surrounded Him. People interrupted Him. Children ran toward Him. Blind men cried out. Women reached for His garment.

He always seemed to have time. Not because His schedule wasn’t full — because people were never interruptions to His mission. They were His mission.

How often do we miss what God is doing because we’re moving too fast? How many conversations end before someone feels safe enough to tell the truth? How many cries for help are disguised as inconvenience?

A boy begging to get in the car is not an inconvenience.

Sometimes slowing down is one of the most spiritual things we can do.

Our culture celebrates influence. Followers. Views. Platforms. Recognition. Jesus modeled something different: presence before platform, relationship before reputation, faithfulness before fame.

You don’t need thousands of people listening to your voice. You need one person who knows you’ll never stop showing up.