More Than Enough: Parking Lot Prayers and Bowling Shoes

It’s Sunday morning. A day set apart, a day to be still before stepping into anything—into buildings, into conversations, into competition, or even into expectations.

I’m sitting alone in the car right now. Barbi and Bella have already gone inside. It’s just me out here, watching the morning unfold. Bella has five games of qualifying ahead of her, and eight games of match play after that. Thirteen in total. (Yes, I did the math. Well, actually Barbi did.)

Before we parked, I looked up and saw a big dumpster sitting in front of the bowling alley with the word “APEX” painted on it. That made me smile. Only God could use a dumpster to remind me where to look—above it all.

Earlier this morning, I went for a walk and found myself standing at the base of a ravine. I decided to climb it. Not because I had to, but because it was there. It was slippery, steep, and I’m 47 years old—so I stayed hyper-focused with every step. I could already see it now—me slipping and tumbling back down, covered in mud, freshly showered and dressed for the day. Thankfully, that scene stayed in my imagination.

When I walked back into the room, Bella was already dressed. Double braids. Locked in. She looked like a lioness—focused, fierce, and ready. If I told her that, she’d say, “Dad, it’s just bowling.” And she’d be right. But I still saw the fire in her eyes. The kind you carry before you lace up your shoes.

So now I sit—still and steady. Letting go of the outcome. Letting go of the need to predict how the day will go. I’m here to support, to pray, to watch, and to trust.

And in this quiet moment before I walk in, I know this: it’s already a good day.

More than enough. Always.