The Sucker Test

How a Dum Dum, a flinch, and a toddler rewrote my post-ruck priorities.

I walked in the door with one mission.

I had just finished a solid ruck — a few miles with 40 pounds on my back. Somewhere between the quiet of the woods, the lack of interruptions, and the slow rhythm of sweat, I had finally silenced that stubborn voice in my head. It’s meditative out there. A sacred kind of reset.

But as a 43-year-old dad who no longer recovers like a college rugby player (where beer and wings counted as balanced nutrition), I was laser-focused on something else:

My recovery drink.

I’d been thinking about it all through the ruck.

Orange juice. Kefir. Collagen. Recovery powder — wait, did I run out?

It had to be mixed and in my system within 30 minutes, or tomorrow I’d feel like I’d been hit by a truck.

So yeah, I was locked in.

Sweaty, sore, slightly proud… and dead set on that finely calibrated, measuring-cup-required magic potion.

And that’s when he appeared.

My toddler.

Sticky fingers. Big eyes. Half-eaten Dum Dum sucker held out like it was the most sacred thing on earth.

And I flinched.

Not big — just enough. A subtle recoil.

Like my body remembered the mess before my heart remembered the boy.

And he saw it.

His hand dropped. His face changed. His joy hesitated.

In that split second, the silence of the trail was replaced with a flood of interruptions.

I was home.

Which meant noise.

Questions.

Chaos.

And now… a sticky octopus of a child offering me what was — in his eyes — the most important thing in his world.

And I almost missed it. Because I wanted a clean drink and a clean moment.

But love isn’t always clean.

It wasn’t about the sucker.

It was about what it revealed.

🙏 Scripture

“Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.”

— Psalm 139:23

That verse hits different when the test isn’t some big trial — but a moment in your kitchen, where a sticky-handed toddler interrupts your protein-to-carb ratio.

🛠️ Reset

Here’s what I’m working on this week:

• Drop the armor at the threshold.
  Even if the workout was great. Even if I’m tired. Let the house see the soft version of me.

• Train for tenderness.
  Not just toughness. My boys don’t need a superhero — they need a dad who sees them, even in the mess.

• Receive what’s given.
  Even when it’s sticky. Especially when it’s sticky. Because that sucker might just be love in its rawest form.

This week, presence might not look like solving big problems or saying the right thing.

It might look like not flinching.

Not recoiling from what’s inconvenient.

But receiving it — the interruption, the noise, the half-eaten grace — with open hands.

Because sometimes the mess is the moment.

And sometimes love comes wrapped in slobber and sugar.