House.

The first day of class for the semester, a new student walked into my worship arts class at the small Bible college in Kansas City where I was a professor. I taught in the afternoons, when both students and professors were allowed to dress more casually. This was a better fit for me than the tucked, collared shirt requirements for classes earlier in the day. This student came in wearing a coat and tie and fancy shoes, which immediately set him apart from the rest of the room. He opened his guitar case and pulled out an acoustic made of wood I’d never seen before, something dark and patterned, exotic and meant to draw attention. Mine looked much simpler by comparison. But plain versus flashy isn’t always an indicator of quality, and over time I learned that the same could be said of people.

Over the next two years, I came to know Wes. When he started my class, he was fresh out of the Army, where he had led worship for his fellow soldiers for years. Now, in his early thirties, he was pursuing training to serve the church in a vocational capacity. During his years growing up in a single-mother household in a hard Detroit neighborhood, Wes found rare joy in music. He spent long hours listening to motown and soul, not just casually, replaying his favorite songs so many times he couldn’t help but sing along decades later when they came on in the car or in the grocery story. He dreamed of being the next MJ. That kind of dreaming doesn’t fade easily, even when it’s steered in a new direction. Having come to faith during his time in the Army, Wes had redirected that desire toward serving the church rather than himself. At least that’s how he described it. It’s what he believed. And it was true on the surface.

Wes and his wife, Joy, began attending the church where I served, and we developed something of a mentor relationship. He eventually came on as an intern, and over time, our lives became more closely tied than either of us probably anticipated at the start. We discussed books and engaged with ideas that faithful church leaders have been contemplating for centuries. We wrote music and both grew in our singing technique. We ate amazing meals and hiked big mountains. Wes became something of a son to me. 

Three years later, when Kelly and I discerned it was right to move to Baltimore to plant churches in urban marginalized communities, Wes and Joy were part of the three-family team that would pursue this work alongside us. We weren’t looking to build something large or explosive. We knew it would be slow, relational work, where we’d be required to earn trust, and often costly in ways that didn’t show up on paper. Days blurred together in conversations, small gatherings, walking neighborhoods, listening more than speaking. This kind of work reveals things in people, sometimes slowly, sometimes all at once.

Wes had experienced real hardship. He never had a relationship with his father, and despite attempts over the years to make a connection, it never materialized. When his father took his own life, the forty years of that absence came crashing down, not just grief, but a kind of finality. Wes’s mother, who’d name him Devon and who refused to call him anything else, had worked and provided for concrete needs, but she wasn’t available in a way that made Wes feel known or loved. He wore that. Through his teen years, Wes often found himself on the outside looking in, and altogether aware of it. At times, he tried to press in, and at other times, he totally withdrew. Wes was unsure about where he fit.

When Wes arrived in the Army, he showed flashes of success, perhaps for the first time. His supervisors saw in him things others had not, and for a while, he seemed to step into that. There were moments where it looked like things were coming together; where effort and opportunity met in a way that could have sustained something different. But beneath the surface, the same patterns continued. In the military, PT normally happens early, it’s consistent, and running is part of it. Wes hated running. So he wouldn’t. He would leave with the group, fall behind once he was out of sight, take a shortcut, and rejoin them on the return, appearing committed and strong. For those who didn’t know, he was exemplary. For those who did, he was something else, and the gap between those two realities didn’t seem to trouble him in the way it should have.

When I met Wes, he said he was on a different path. I believed him. I wanted to believe him. But paths worn deeply into our thinking and functioning aren’t so easily changed.

When we arrived in Baltimore, Wes and Joy made real sacrifices. They moved into a small second-floor studio apartment in a hard neighborhood, where the noise outside never quieted and where manners weren’t forgotten but never learned. Joy loved to cook, but the kitchen didn’t have space for the tools she was used to. Wes gave away much of what he had, bikes and army equipment he’d saved. They chose to step into reality that required loss, and that loss was real. But if we’re not careful, we can be tempted to use past sacrifices to justify present indulgences.

Perhaps the heaviest hardship they carried was their inability to have children. They wanted a family, and after years of trying, it hadn’t happened. That desire lingered in the background of many decisions. At times, Wes would bring it up, but it went mostly unmetioned. When Wes’s old Pontiac finally broke down beyond repair, they were forced to purchase another vehicle. Wes had shared about their financial struggles with me, and we had talked through more disciplined options. The responsible choice would have been something small and reliable, something that fit their situation and provided a degree of freedom. The things we possess are meant to afford us freedom, but when we hold them in a way that’s out of balance, they do just the opposite. Wes did not choose quality and simplicity. Instead, he chose the vehicular version of the flashy guitar—a midsize SUV, and he overpaid by a long shot. His reasoning was simple, and emotional. Their kids were coming, and he wanted them to have the space they needed.

Within months, the engine blew. There was a significant loan on the car, and Wes had agreed contractually that, for the duration of the loan, he would keep it in good working order. The repair cost was more than the car was worth, and he called me. At the time, Kelly and I were living entirely off savings, having given everything I had raised to the church. We had cashed out our savings, including retirement accounts, to sustain what we believed we were called to do. We didn’t have a lot, but from what we did have, we offered to pay off his loan. He and Joy were part of the team. They had moved across the country with us, they had made sacrifices, and they were looking at serious consequences apart from a generous party intervening. We wanted to help them find stability, and to give them room to make different decisions moving forward.

I’ve love to say that Wes and Joy learned a powerful lesson from this experience, that they made a plan, and stuck with it. But I can’t say that. I wrote a poem for Wes called birthright, which contains a section that sums up a significant part of our relationship. 

You were in need.
I gave from abundance.
You said thank you.

You wasted what I gave.

Need, gift, waste—
our refrain.

The song between us.

The pattern didn’t change. It showed up in cars, credit cards, small decisions and large ones, purchases that felt justified in the moment but couldn’t be sustained over time. It would build until they could barely breathe, and then I would step in. There was always a reason, always a context that made it make sense in the moment. I’d like to say I didn’t see it, but I did. I told myself it would change, or that my help would create space for change, but the pattern held, repeating itself with slight variations, but never really breaking. Need, gift, waste was not only his pattern—it became mine.

Around that same time, a couple in our church was making plans for their daughter, Julia. The mother, due to cancer, was nearing the end of her life, and the father had been formally declared an unfit caregiver. They asked for my counsel, and I recommended Wes and Joy. It seemed to answer multiple questions at once, a loving home for Julia and a child for Wes and Joy. The couple chose another path.

In June of 2020, in the middle of the pandemic, Melissa died, and as I was sitting in my office, I got a call from the aunt. I agreed to take Julia, she shared,  but it’s not going to work for me. Kelly and I had previously taken another young girl into our home, and after a lot of hard work and patience, she was beginning to thrive. The aunt shared that the couple had wanted Julia to be placed with Kelly and me. And not Wes and Joy. But the aunt was beyond making this decision. I’m dropping Julia off right now, she said. I can either bring her to you, or I’ll take her to CPS. What do you want me to do? Without hesitation, I said I’d take Julia. 30 minutes later, I was sitting in my office with a hysterical 12 year old girl. 

Months later, I received a call. The plan had fallen through. An aunt who had committed to care for Julie had changed her mind, and she’d either bring Julia to me, or give her over to the state. There wasn’t time to weigh options or consider alternatives. Thirty minutes later, she was sitting across from me, crying, disoriented, trying to make sense of what had just happened and what would happen next. Our family wasn’t in a position to keep Julia long term, and Wes and Joy became the natural choicer. That was the turning point, though I didn’t recognize it at the time.

Julia carried more than most kids her age, and it showed up in ways that were difficult to manage and often unpredictable. At a church cookout, she began taking pictures of my son in ways that made him uncomfortable and that were altogether inappropriate, positioning her phone within inches of parts of his body that should never have been approached that way. He asked her to stop. She refused, loudly, pushing back against even the suggestion that someone else could set a boundary for her. The moment escalated quickly, not because of what happened initially, but because of her refusal to respond to any form of correction. Later, at a camp, she repeatedly entered my daughters’ room uninvited. When asked to leave, she began spraying hairspray through the room, until things escalated into shouting and confusion.

We made a plan that required constant supervision, not as punishment, but as protection for her and for others. Wes and Joy agreed. They didn’t follow through. On multiple occasions, they allowed her to go unsupervised, and the same unhealthy behaviors occurred again and again. When asked about it, Joy said she didn’t want to do it that way anymore. There was no conversation, no adjustment to the plan, just a decision to ignore that plan we’d all agreed to.

Over time, the same pattern continued, not only with parenting, or finances, but with responsibility itself. Need, gift, waste. Over ten years, Kelly and I paid off multiple debts for them, covered expenses, supplemented income, and carried more than we should have. Wes had come from a disadvantaged background, and I had experienced opportunities he hadn’t. He wanted a family, and I had one. He struggled financially, and we had been provided for in ways I hadn’t expected. So we kept giving, telling ourselves it was generosity, that it was part of what we were called to do, that this was what it meant to invest in people over time. Wes once made the comment that I was playing the long game. I agreed.

When we prepared to leave Baltimore, we offered to sell them one of our homes at a price well below market value. When we bought the house, it had been a section 8 rental for decades, worn down in ways that were immediately visible. It only took us a few days before Kelly and I implemented a rule that the kids could only remove their shoes when in bed. The original hardwoods were in desperately rough shape and massive splinters were otherwise virtually guaranteed. We had renovated it slowly, replacing the roof, repairing walls, installing new floors, updating the kitchen and bathroom. We installed a stained glass window from a church that had been torn down, something that felt like a small act of preservation in the middle of everything else. It became something we loved. We thought selling it to them might put them in a better position to move forward.

Their loan didn’t go through, so we rented it to them well below market value while they worked to finalize it. Then we moved.

Not long after, Julia began posting unkind comments about my daughters on social media. I called Wes. Joy answered. At first, she said it wasn’t possible, and that Julia wasn’t allowed on social media. Then she said the comments weren’t about my girls. When I asked who they were about, she said, boldly and angrily, “It’s none of your business.” Something in that moment clarified what I had not allowed myself to see.

The next day, we were scheduled to sign papers on the house. I told her I wouldn’t be signing. That it was no longer healthy for me to be generous in the ways I had for so long. She apologized quickly and fully, but it didn’t mean much to me. It felt practiced, immediate, disconnected from what had actually taken place. Within the hour, Wes called. He asked one question: “What do you want me to do?” I told him to move out of my house and step down from leadership. “Easy,” he said. Later in the conversation, though, he’d changed his mind. He instructed me, “Sign the papers.” 

I did.

There’s a faithful saint of woman who has supported me for years. She’s someone I trust deeply. She once told me she has a sense about people. She wasn’t surprised it went like this. She said that from the first time she met Wes, she knew undoubtedly he would be more weight than support. I didn’t see it that way, or maybe I didn’t want to.

He lives in my house.