It started with this photo of a desk.

Nuria, my right-hand woman and faithful commenter of one hundred and twenty-two muses — sent me a picture of her father’s old desk — the same one with the clumsy drawers where she’d just typed her comment. And then came the line I’ll never forget:

“My chair explains why your muses make me cry.”

And somehow that simple image of her sitting at her father’s old desk, reminded me of how deeply we’re all shaped by a faith family connection, even when it takes half a lifetime to understand what that really means.

When I was young, I couldn’t understand.

How could family mean more to my dad than basketball?

Basketball was everything. It filled the house, our weekends, our hearts. It woke him up in the middle of the night and sometimes made him sleep too long. I saw him triumphant because of basketball. I saw him devastated because of basketball. It consumed him — and come time for the playoffs, it consumed us.

So when he’d say family means more to me than basketball, I didn’t get it.

Not until I saw that photo of Nuria’s dad’s desk.

The connection revealed.

Her chair and her father’s desk made me think of my own — and of the years it took to understand the love that surrounded it. Dad really did love us more than basketball. What he spoke of us was possible.

It’s the same revelation we had as new parents. Alex and I couldn’t imagine ever loving a kid more than we loved Skylar.

But then we had Alexandra, and our hearts expanded. Our love grew stronger.

It turns out love isn’t finite.

And when our children turn into adults and start their own lives, and build their own teams, our hearts ache. We can’t imagine ever loving anyone as much as we’ve loved our kids.

But, our hearts ache and then they stretch again.

Love breaks us free so we can love farther and deeper. Reach more people with that love that used to be centered solely around our kids.

Coming home to the desk.

And that’s the truest sign of connection — that one photo of someone’s father’s desk that brings me right back to my own.

I wrote this muse sitting at my dad’s custom-made desk — the one that was always too big for me, even as a kid. But that’s okay. The leather top is worn, one drawer handle is missing, and it’s still too tall for me, so I keep a footrest underneath to reach the right height.

When I was little he’d sit at this same desk in the old library, watching film by the pale light of the window — the game projected onto the black filing cabinets, the glow flickering across his face. He’d have his yellow legal pad out, taking notes.

Maybe that’s when I learned to write in the dark.

When he was gone on another road trip, I’d sometimes sit in there, put my legs up on the desk, and do my homework by the light of the same lamp that now sits beside me. Only now, there are golf balls in the candelabras instead of fake candles in a different room.

That reflection reminds me:

The beauty of a faith family connection — it continues to shine through memory, story, and the love that lives between generations.

Because love, when it’s real, never runs out of room.

It’s your turn.

Does your father’s desk still shine in your heart, reminding you to love — and love deeply? There’s always more to give.