Scribed In Light

There’s a story I once heard about a man who took his son fishing.

The sky was clear when they left, but clouds rolled in and rain poured down all day. They stayed anyway—soaked, cold, and uncomfortable. They didn’t catch a single fish.

Not one.
Not even a pity nibble.

When the father got home, he told his wife the trip had been a complete failure. Bad timing. Wasted effort. Nothing to show for the day.

But that night, when he tucked his son into bed, he noticed a journal on the nightstand.

Inside, the boy had written about the greatest day of his life.

He wrote about laughing in the rain.
Talking all day with his dad.
Being together without distractions.

The boy didn’t measure the day by fish caught.
He measured it by presence.

Today, that story became my reality.

I woke up with lists.
A main list.
A catch-up list.
And the unspoken, overly ambitious belief that I could fix a week and a half of life in one day.

I planned to hit the ground running.

I made my morning coffee—strong, steaming, wake-the-heck-up coffee—and sat at the table prioritizing what needed to come first… fully convinced I was about to be wildly productive.

Enter my son.

Austin is an adult with disabilities. He faces daily challenges that would sack most people. The collateral losses of his disorder have taken much of what society considers “normal.”

Driving.
Dating.
College.
A job.
Settling down.
Building a family.

Those doors never opened for him…yet.

His normal looks very different.

As I gave him his medication and asked how his night had gone, he quietly shared that he was lonely.

Just like that.
No warning.
No dramatic buildup.

He missed his siblings—all grown now, living their own lives with families of their own. He missed how they used to watch Christmas shows together during the holidays. The random games. The laughter that used to fill the house without anyone scheduling it.

And right there… my lists lost their authority.

The chores.
The routines.
The carefully planned productivity parade.

All of it was immediately demoted.

I stayed in my pajamas—because clearly, they were now the correct attire.
Grabbed pillows and blankets.
And camped out in the living room with my son like we had absolutely nowhere else to be.

We binged Christmas movies.
We laughed.
We bonded.

Zero efficiency.
Zero accomplishments.
An impressive lack of anything crossed off.

By every external measure, I got nothing done.

But I gained something far more meaningful.

Sometimes it’s not about checking boxes or maintaining routines. Sometimes it’s about recognizing when life taps you on the shoulder and says, “Hey… this matters more.”

Today reminded me that success isn’t always productive.
Some days don’t look accomplished on paper.

But they are rich beyond measure.

Today, nothing was accomplished.
And everything that mattered was gained.

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Some days don’t need a checklist.
They ask us to pause, be present, and live—rather than be driven by life.
My hope for you— May you find yourself fully in the moment, wherever that moment finds you.

Hugs, Hope, and Grace,

—Tina N. Campbell | Scribed in Light

“Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.”
— Robert Brault

“No one on their deathbed ever said, ‘I wish I’d spent more time at the office.’”
— Commonly attributed to Paul Tsongas

“A man’s heart plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps.” —Proverbs 16:9