Eyes of Heaven — Part 1: I Want to Hear “Well Done”

There are moments in life that split you open—not with pain alone, but with revelation.

This is one of them.

My son was just over four years old.

I was deep in a season of unraveling—though I didn’t have language for it yet.

On the outside, I was “successful.” On the inside, I was exhausted, overworking, over-efforting, trying to prove something I couldn’t name.

I had gone from 9–5 to 95 hours a week in business.
If that wasn’t enough, I’d go further.
Sleep an hour a night.
Push harder.
Carry more.

I was in my “I’ve got this, God” phase—doing life in my own strength, believing that effort equaled value.

And then… my son.

He had been playing baseball—tee ball—for a couple of years. He loved it. That day, our family was there to watch him. Grandparents. Relatives. People who had shown up just for him.

The game ended.

He didn’t run to them.

He ran straight through them.

Straight to me.

And with his little body shaking—hope and desperation tangled together—he looked up at me and asked:

“Dad… did I make you proud?”

Everything in me stopped.

Time slowed.

My chest cracked open.

And something rose in me—not gentle, not polite, but fiercely loving:

What got onto my precious son?

I understand the phrase “make your parents proud.”
We laugh about it in sitcoms.
We hear it in movies.
It’s said casually, even lovingly.

In that moment, it felt like a violation.

Because the idea that my son had to do anything to be loved—
to be cherished—
to be enough—

That does not come from love.

It comes from fear.

I was caught off guard. Nearly in tears. Maybe I needed to be that exhausted from overworking—no defenses left, no pretense standing—to see clearly:

That thought did not belong on my son or daughters.
And it does not belong on any child.

All I could do was pull him close and say:

“You don’t have to do anything to make me proud.
I love you, my son.”

And I held him tight.

Years later—after healing, after remembering Heaven, after boldly returning to my voice through writing, after learning to live from love instead of effort—I was in worship.

I heard the line we sing so often:

“I want to hear ‘well done.’”

And instantly, God took me back to that moment.

Not with condemnation.

With ache.

With clarity.

With the heart of a Father.

I felt—deeply—the sorrow of a Father watching His children try to earn what He has already given freely.

Infinite love without condition is hard to comprehend in this world.
And it is the truest form of love there is.

It is the love of the Father.
It is the love I experienced in Heaven.
It is the love Jesus reveals.

Suddenly, I saw how subtly this twist has worked its way into us.

We sing already chosen, already loved.
But we live as though value must still be proven.

We read the parable of the talents through human lenses and conclude:
Our worth is in what we do.

So we strive.
We overcompensate.

All while missing the truth:

The Father descended like a dove on Jesus before any miracles.
Before any ministry.
Before any public works.

“This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.”

That declaration did not come after performance.
It came from identity.

This is the same subtle deception I wrote about in The River—
the moment when “change the world” becomes pressure instead of invitation.

The same voice has been twisting truth since the Garden.

How you see God changes everything.

If you believe God reaps where He has not sown,
you miss that every breath, every second, every cent, every gift comes from Him.

When we believe the lie of separation from Our Father—we start living as though love must be earned.

I choose not to live that way.

What we give energy to, we attract —including fear. I refuse to live from fear of being the third servant.

Instead I choose to live from infinite possibilities with eyes of Heaven open— even when I don’t understand it with human logic.

Something far greater than the three in that parable is here.

The One who is love and light.

And He lives in us.

He says:

“These things—and even greater—you will do.”

I believe even greater than the double of the first two servants is possible. I believe in infinite overflow.

Not because I’ve earned it—
simply because I am a child of the One who is all good,
all loving,
and infinite in possibility.

I believe what God has spoken over me.
Over my wife.
Over our children.
Over our loved ones.
Over this world.
Over you.

What a free way to live.

To truly embody being a son or daughter who comes from already hearing:

“Well done.”

Before we were formed in our mothers’ wombs.

To play freely.
To compete freely.
To create freely.
To live without needing validation.

So today, I bless you—
and me—
and us—

To hear the “well done” the Father has already spoken over your life.

And to live from that place.

From this moment forward.

Forever.

Infinite love and blessing,

Nicholas