With Halloween decorations springing up everywhere and the end of October approaching, I’ve been reflecting on what is truly scary. Not ghost stories or horror movies, but the real things that keep people up at night: rejection, fear of not being enough, failure, money problems, strained relationships, and more.

I think the biggest boogeyman that adults face is time. As I’ve written about before, time is the ultimate villain in most of our lives. It’s the subtle framework behind our decisions, whether we realize it or not.

Lately, I’ve been asking myself, how do we practically deal with time so it doesn’t become the boogeyman of our lives? How do we focus on using our time for the right things, especially when balancing time between our responsibilities and relationships?

That answer came to me on a cold Friday afternoon standing on a sidewalk with my son and a man named Tyre.

It was one of our “Daddy Days,” where I took my son out for some one-on-one time. The weather was chilly, and as I bundled up my four-year-old, I could already sense that getting to the Children’s Museum would take more effort than usual. Still, it had been too long since we last went out, and I was determined to make it work.

With coats zipped and gloves on, we drove downtown. The dilemma? Parking. I spotted a two-hour spot and quickly grabbed it, knowing that if we didn’t hurry, our museum trip would be cut short by the meter. As we passed a Raising Cane’s restaurant, a man standing outside caught my attention.

He was in his early to mid twenties, with a sleeping bag draped over his shoulders. When he asked for money for a meal, I quickly handed him a dollar I had in my wallet before hurrying along, excited to spend time with my son when a thought popped into my head.

“You can give more,” God nudged.

I stopped. We were only half a block from the museum now.

The last three weekends of “Daddy Day” had to be skipped because of family events and more, so I really didn’t want to cut into his time.

I waffled there for a moment until I finally gave a sigh and relented.

“Buddy… I think we should go back to help this man,” I said to my son. “It’ll mean taking longer to get to the museum. Is that all right with you?” I finished, feeling conflicted. I wanted to keep moving—after all, this was his time, not the man’s.

To my surprise, he agreed without hesitation.

“Can I buy you a meal?” I asked Tyre as we approached. He looked surprised but accepted with a quiet “Thank you,” and introduced himself.

As we stood in the restaurant line, my son stuck close, shyly watching this stranger from behind me. As we waited to order, Tyre shared his story—recently homeless after losing his job and mother, he was struggling to get back on his feet. The more Tyre talked, the more I recognized the pattern: the need to prove he was “worth” the help.

I could hear my own voice from the past in his words, the same justifications I once made hoping to prove my worthiness for help.

As we waited for Tyre’s to come outside with his food, a man approached out of nowhere speaking Spanish. His words were quick, and I didn’t understand much of what he was saying, but from his gestures and the broken English coming through his speakerphone, it became clear that he was lost and needed directions.

I glanced down at my son, who had been waiting for almost 30 minutes at this point.

The pressure was building—the parking meter, the promise of a fun day with him, the mental clock ticking in my head.

“You can give more,” I heard echoed again.

I sighed. “Seriously, God? Isn’t this enough?” I thought, frustrated. But my son gave me a calm smile, and that was all I needed to push forward.

I took the man’s phone, and with Tyre helping fill in the blanks, managed to direct the man where he needed to go.

By the time we were done helping, Tyre had finished his meal. My mind was racing. We had been waiting for nearly 40 minutes now, the parking meter was still ticking down, and we hadn’t even set foot in the museum yet. I felt the frustration bubbling up inside me, but when I looked at my son, he was calm, content, quietly observing. He was happy just to be with me, even if it wasn’t what we had planned.

That’s when it hit me—my son was giving the real gift to Tyre that day: his time. Only because of his willingness to let someone else share his time with me were we able to help Tyre.

Then I heard “You can give more” one final time.

This time peace came with it.

I knelt next to my son and asked if we could do one more thing for Tyre before going to the museum. Once again, he agreed with a nod and a smile.

We walked to the nearby bank, withdrew some money, and returned to give it to Tyre. We shared a hug and prayed together, the three of us, one final time.

Finally, we walked into the Children’s Museum. As I watched my son climb the jungle gym clock tower and gather foam blocks, I beamed with pride.

My son had chosen, out of the pureness of his heart, to help again and again that day, giving up the most precious of his gifts—his time.

We haven’t heard from Tyre since that day. But I’m grateful for those moments we shared. I’m grateful for the kindness of my son’s heart, and a humbling reminder that our time is the greatest gift we can give.

There may come a day when my son is successful, wealthy, and can give me the world if he wants. But that will still pale to outshine the gift of the precious moments he shares with me, just as he shared it with Tyre that day.

I plan to treasure every second with him—and with everyone I love—knowing that time is as precious as gold.

Until next time,
Addison