This week on the Being Human Podcast, Fr. Dave told a story about an interaction with his dad when he was in eighth-grade that, as a young father, deeply moved me.
Fr. Dave started rattling off a fact about Pikes Peak to his dad. Engaged in the conversation, his dad asked a follow-up question. But Fr. Dave couldn’t answer it. Cue the awkward fumble and the feelings of insecurity. Then a moment of grace and the phrase every child longs to hear and needs to hear:
“You don’t have to impress me for me to love you.”
That one sentence did what hours of lecturing can’t. It cut through the fear that love is earned, not given. It anchored a son’s heart in secure love and it’s impact hasn’t lessened in over 40 years.
Why this lands so deeply
Children (no matter the age) are running a quiet experiment: Am I safe? Am I wanted? When love seems tied to grades, goals, or good behavior, they learn, I’m lovable when I perform. That’s a shaky foundation. A clear, repeated message like, “My love isn’t contingent on your success,” builds secure attachment, carrying with it the confidence to try, fail, repair, and try again.
Even the human part of Jesus longed to hear a message of loving affirmation. Before he worked a single miracle Jesus was on the receiving end of His Father’s voice saying, “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.” In other words, identity and attachment first, mission second. When parents mirror that order, they evangelize without saying a word.
Don’t just say it, live it.
Fr. Dave grew up in a small town with five brothers and summer was full of game after game of baseball. His dad was a physician. He couldn’t sit through nine innings at every field. But he did something that left a mark: he showed up for five minutes at each game, caught two at-bats here, a play at second there, and then hustled back to the hospital.
He didn’t just tell Fr. Dave that he was loved, he showed him.
Five minutes may sound trivial. But, it wasn’t. Think about what those micro-appearances said to a boy without any speechifying:
- I know where you are (attention).
- I want to be here (desire).
- I have to leave for work, but I don’t leave you (commitment).
And on the days he couldn’t come by at all? The five-minute rhythm had already written the truth under the absence: Dad wants to be here. He sees me. His work is how he takes care of us.
This is how presence becomes a language. Children learn to read it. It calms their bodies and straightens their backs. It makes them braver.
They celebrate it too
Years later, when his dad was dying, surrounded by his family, they all did something most of us don’t expect at the hour of death: they clapped.
Why would a family clap when their father died? Because they all knew, deeply, bodily, and without qualification, that they had been loved. And they were thanking him. For his love. For his presence. For finishing the race well. And that was something truly to be celebrated.
What this approach does (and doesn’t) mean
- It doesn’t mean standards disappear. You still coach effort, virtue, and responsibility.
- It does mean standards are offered within a relationship that’s already secure. Correction comes from love, not for love.
Think: unconditional belonging → clear expectations → honest feedback → reliable repair.
The Long Echo of a Short Sentence
“You don’t have to impress me for me to love you.”
He said it once. He proved it often. He sealed it at the end.
That’s the arc.
Most families won’t clap when death comes. That moment will look different in every house. But the reason behind Fr. Dave’s family’s applause can be ours: a mother or father who slowly, stubbornly separates love from performance and anchors identity in something stronger than achievement.
It’s in the five-minute drive-bys at the ballfield. It’s in the chapel stops no one sees. It’s in the apology after a miss and the promise you keep next Saturday. It’s in tracing a small cross on a forehead at bedtime and saying, “I’m glad you’re mine.”
If you want a place to start, borrow the line that set a boy free:
“You don’t have to impress me for me to love you.”
Say it to your child before the test, after the loss, on an ordinary Tuesday at the sink. Say it when you don’t feel like you’ve been a great parent. Say it because it’s true—and then go prove it in five quiet minutes.
One day, far down the line, your children may not clap. But they’ll know why Fr. Dave’s family did. And they’ll carry the same certainty you gave them: I was loved, not because I impressed, but because I belonged.