When My Child Cried on the Field

The Moment That Caught Me Off Guard

I remember being at one of Caleb’s soccer practices. The kids were running drills, each taking their turn to shoot at goal. Caleb lined up, kicked—and missed. Almost instantly, his face crumpled, and he ran straight to me in tears.

All around us, the other kids kept playing. Parents were watching. And there I was, with my son sobbing in my arms.

I felt the heat rise in my face. Why was my child the only one crying? Why couldn’t he just brush it off like the others?

My Inner Struggle

In that moment, my instinct was to hush him. I wanted to say, “Stop crying, go back and play.” But if I’m honest, that would have been more about saving my pride than helping him.

I was torn. Part of me feared what the other parents might think. Another part just wanted Caleb’s tears to stop, because they made me uncomfortable.

But here was my son, hurting in plain sight, needing me to choose between protecting my image or being present with him.

A Different Response

I took a deep breath, knelt down, and pulled him into a hug. I said, “It’s hard when we try and it doesn’t work out.”

Something shifted. His shoulders softened. His crying slowed. He still felt the sting of disappointment, but he knew he wasn’t alone in it.

And that’s when I realized: my role isn’t to erase the sadness or to push him back into the game at all costs. My role is to be a safe place he can run to.

Reflection

That day showed me more about my own heart than Caleb’s. I saw how quickly my pride could surface, how easily I could put my reputation above my child’s need.

But I also saw how powerful it was to meet him where he was, not where I wanted him to be.

Beyond the Sidelines

When I think back on that scene, I realize how often we do the same thing in everyday life. We tell ourselves or others: “Don’t cry. Toughen up. Keep going.” We assume performance is what matters most.

But what if the real work of parenting—and even the Christian life—is learning to walk alongside someone in their weakness instead of rushing them out of it?

My moment with Caleb was not about soccer. It was about slowing down enough to see his heart. And in that pause, I realized: the deeper lesson wasn’t about whether he could score a goal, but whether he could trust that his father was with him even when he missed.

And perhaps that is the lesson for me too.