Hey—can I sit with you for a minute?

Me and my husband have been living apart for the past year. Military life. Not the first time, and honestly, not even the hardest time. But something about this stretch has been… tender.

Have you ever had a season like that—where the thing isn’t brand new, but it hits differently?

We’ve done the distance dance for a while now. Off and on. He goes. I stay. We do our best.

And now, he’s home again. Or… trying to be.
And I’m trying to remember what it feels like to relearn someone you love.

I’ve been here with the kids—living the daily noise, learning their moods, their preferences, their weird little phrases that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. It’s second nature to me now. But for him?

It’s like walking into a movie that didn’t pause when you left the room.
You know that feeling?

Or like being subbed back into a game, no warm-up, no replays. Just—“Go.”

And I can feel the weight of it on him. Not a lack of love. Just the ache of being behind.

I’ll be honest—there was a moment last week when he poured the wrong cereal or missed a bedtime cue (I can’t even remember which), and I felt this wave of irritation rise up.
I wanted to snap. “Seriously? You’ve been a dad for years.”
But I heard it again—rekhem.
Compassion. Mercy.
And I had to ask myself: Am I offering him what I’d want if the roles were reversed?

Have you ever expected someone to catch up without giving them time?

The Holy Spirit keeps bringing me back to this word: rekhem.
It’s Hebrew. It means compassion—but it’s deeper than that.
It shares a root with “womb.”
It’s mercy that holds. Mercy that covers. Mercy that doesn’t rush or shame.

And I’ve needed that kind of mercy too.

So I’m asking myself:

• What would it look like to hold space for him right now?
• Not as the perfect co-parent, not as the ideal teammate—but just as someone trying.
• What would it mean to stop expecting him to be me?
• And more tender still—what would it look like to welcome him instead of just reassigning him?

“As a father has compassion [rekhem] on his children, so the Lord has compassion on those who fear him.” —Psalm 103:13

That word—rekhem—has been sitting on me. Not just soft feelings, but rooted compassion. The kind that doesn’t compare or rush or correct out of frustration. The kind that steadies and invites.

Do you need that kind of compassion right now too?
To receive it—or to offer it?

A Gentle Nudge

And maybe this isn’t just about him.
Maybe for you, it’s not a spouse returning home—but someone else stepping back into something they used to do.

Or maybe it’s you.

Maybe you’re the one trying to rejoin something you’ve been away from.
A dream. A friendship. Church. A sense of self.
And you’re hoping the people around you won’t expect you to have it all figured out right away.

What would change if we all practiced rekhem for each other?

What would soften if we stopped expecting everyone to be caught up?

Blessing

So here’s to the slow rebuilders.
The ones showing up after absence.
The ones making room without resentment.
The ones practicing compassion even when it’s not reciprocated right away.

May you have grace for the stumbles,
softness for the awkward pauses,
and strength to keep choosing love—
quietly, daily, again and again.