Being Present in a World That Feels Less Safe

You know that feeling when you’re scrolling through the news at night, half-watching, half-bracing yourself; and then a headline stops you cold?

That has been me these past few weeks.

With the rise of school violence here in the Philippines, something in me shifted. Not into panic, but into a kind of heightened, almost instinctive watchfulness. Adi is my son. Snowy is my niece, under my care now, and in every way that matters, just as much mine to protect as he is. And when story after story comes out of places that are supposed to be safe; classrooms, hallways, the spaces where children should feel the most secure; you stop scrolling past it. You start looking at your own kids a little differently. You start wondering what’s actually shaping them when you’re not in the room.

Allen and I have been talking about it a lot, in that low-key way couples talk about things at the dinner table or right before bed. What are they watching. What are they playing. How fast a video autoplays into the next one without either of us realizing how far the algorithm has taken them. So we’ve started paying closer attention; not as control, but as care. Not to catch them doing something wrong, but to actually know what’s filling their minds when the world feels less predictable than it used to.

And honestly, in the middle of all that watchfulness, I’ve been catching myself feeling something else too: grateful.

I work from home now, and most days I don’t say that out loud enough. There is a version of this season where I would be hearing about all of this from a distance, piecing together their world from secondhand updates between meetings. Instead, I get to actually be here. I see what they’re watching. I hear the things they say under their breath. I get the small, ordinary moments that would otherwise slip by unnoticed; and right now, those ordinary moments feel like such a gift.

And in the middle of all that, Ps. Ets’ message this Father’s Day found me exactly when I needed it.

The Father who shows up.

Pastor Joseph Etienne “Ets” Morales of New Life North Metro preached on the characteristics of a father, drawing from the life of Jesus and His relationship with God the Father. One line in particular has not left me since:

“You are My beloved Son; in You I am well pleased.” (Luke 3:22)

That declaration came at Jesus’ baptism; before any miracle, before any sermon, before any proof of ministry. The Father spoke love and affirmation first. Not as a reward for performance, but as the foundation underneath everything that would come after.

Ps. Ets made the point that as parents, especially as fathers, showing love to our children is not weakness, even though the world often treats it that way. He said something that struck me directly: the opposite of love is not hate, it is appetite. Love that disciplines, corrects, and shows up consistently is not in competition with love that affirms; it is the same love, doing what love is supposed to do.

That distinction matters more to me right now than it ever has. Because in a world where I cannot control every headline or every algorithm, what I can control is whether my children know, beyond question, that they are loved and that they matter to the people raising them.

Hearing them, not just managing them.

Another part of the message stayed with me: the call to actually hear our children, not just hear from them.

Ps. Ets referenced the Mount of Transfiguration, when the voice from the cloud said, “This is My beloved Son… hear Him.” Not just listen to His words in passing. Hear Him.

I think about how easy it is, especially in seasons of heightened worry, to slide into a posture of pure management; checking screen time, restricting apps, monitoring content; without actually sitting down and asking Adi and Snowy what they are seeing, what they are feeling, what questions are forming in their minds that they have not said out loud yet.

Vigilance without conversation can start to feel like surveillance instead of love. I do not want that for them. I want them to know that when Allen and I ask what they’re watching, it is because we want to understand their world, not because we assume the worst about them.

Being real instead of being superman.

Ps. Ets said something that I have turned over many times since Sunday: stop trying to be superman when you’re not; sometimes they just need a dad.

I think that applies just as much to mothers, and to anyone standing in a parenting role right now. We cannot promise our children a world with no danger in it. We cannot engineer a childhood with zero risk. What we can do is be present, be honest, and be the steady, real adults in their lives instead of pretending we have it all figured out.

Let’s not let school, YouTube, or a gadget raise our children for us. That line from the message landed with weight, especially now. Because if Allen and I are not the ones shaping how Adi and Snowy interpret what they see in the world, something else will. An algorithm will. A stranger’s content will. And neither of those will do it with the same care we would.

So we’ve been trying to be more intentional about what fills their hands and their hours, not just what we’re keeping away from them. Yesterday was the first session of a private art class we got for the kids, with their teacher, Aleli. Watching them sit there completely absorbed; hands busy with paint and pastels, no iPads, just creating and giggling through the whole thing; did something for my heart that I didn’t expect. There’s a particular kind of peace in watching your children be fully present in something good, hands busy instead of thumbs scrolling.

I’m not writing this to suggest every parent needs to book an art class. I know seasons, schedules, and resources look different for everyone. But I do think there is something for all of us in asking: what is one thing, however small, that could pull our kids toward creating instead of consuming this week? It does not have to be elaborate. It just has to be intentional.

Present, even in the unanswered moments.

The message closed on Gethsemane and the cross; on a Father who did not remove the cup from Jesus, and a Son who, in His most desperate hour, cried out and seemingly received silence in return. Ps. Ets’s point was not that God was absent. It was that sometimes presence does not look like rescue. Sometimes it looks like staying.

“My God, My God, why have You forsaken Me?” (Matthew 27:46)

I cannot promise Adi and Snowy a world with no fear in it. I cannot remove every headline that might one day reach them or shield them from every hard conversation that is coming as they grow. What I can do is be present. Ask the real questions. Watch what they watch, not from a place of fear, but from a place of love that disciplines and stays close.

Being a parent right now means holding two things at once: a real, sober awareness of the world’s dangers, and an unshaken commitment to be the kind of present, honest, loving home that gives our children somewhere safe to land regardless of what is happening outside our door.

That is the kind of father, and the kind of mother, I want to be for them.

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If you’re a parent navigating this same tension right now; the vigilance, the screen-time conversations, the quiet fear that comes with raising children in this season; I would love to hear how you’re holding it. 🤍