Headfirst into a New World

A Father, a Son, a Nuthatch, and Transitions

This is a letter I wrote to my son, Miles, as he ends his junior year of high school and looks ahead to his senior year. It follows a conversation we had about college, calling, career, and change. I will give him this letter (probably with changes to be discerned in the next year) at his high school graduation next year.

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My Son,

Tonight, after we talked in the kitchen while I washed dishes and you stood beside the table talking about AP exams, senior year, and college, I walked outside feeling the weight of transition. Not a bad weight. Just a holy one. The kind of weight fathers feel when they realize the conversations are changing.

Not long ago, most of our talks were about classroom projects, tryouts, and small victories. But tonight felt different. I wasn’t talking to a boy anymore. I was talking to a young man standing on the edge of a new world.

And as I stood outside thinking about all of this, I saw one of my favorite birds move down the trunk of a tree—the white-breasted nuthatch. You know how much I love those quirky little birds. Black cap. White face. Bluish-gray wings. Tiny body. Loud laugh that honestly sounds a little like mine. But what has always fascinated me most is how they move.

Most birds climb upward or hop across the ground. The nuthatch does something different. It flies to the top of the tree and walks downward headfirst. It looks backward. Awkward. Risky. Almost upside down. Yet that unusual movement is exactly how it survives. By climbing differently, it sees things other birds miss.

And son, I think there’s wisdom in that for you as you prepare for college.

College may feel like climbing headfirst into unfamiliar territory. You’ll leave behind routines that have shaped your life for years. You’ll encounter new people, new ideas, new freedoms, and new responsibilities. Some days will feel exciting. Other days will feel lonely and uncertain. That’s normal.

Courage isn’t the absence of fear. Courage is trusting your footing even when you cannot fully see where the next step leads. The nuthatch trusts its grip before it fully sees the path beneath it. And in many ways, that’s what faith looks like, too.

I know people often reduce college to one question: What job will this lead to? That matters, of course. Work matters. Stewardship matters. But I want you to know that your life is bigger than a career path.

The truth is, your generation will likely change jobs many times. Entire industries are shifting. Artificial intelligence is changing how people think about work, value, and even humanity itself. If your identity is tied only to a job title, the ground beneath you will always feel unstable.

So my deepest hope for you is not simply that you find a career. I hope you discover who you are. I hope you learn what brings you alive. I hope you become attentive to the movements of God in your soul. Because education, at its best, is not merely about information. It is about formation. It’s a rite of passage to transformation.

The nuthatch sees hidden places in the bark because it climbs differently. And perhaps college will help you notice hidden things too—beauty, justice, wisdom, friendship, calling. Maybe it will help you see parts of yourself you have not yet discovered. And yes, you will change.

Some people fear that. I remember hearing warnings growing up that college changes people, as though change itself were the enemy. But the nuthatch offers another lesson: adaptation is not the same thing as losing your identity.

The nuthatch does not become a squirrel because it climbs differently. It remains fully a bird. It simply learns how to navigate changing seasons wisely. That’s my hope for you. Not that you stay the same, but that you become more deeply yourself. More grounded. More compassionate. More thoughtful. More aware of God’s calling on your life.

You’ll need practical wisdom too. A long list (to be sure): Time management. Emotional resilience. Financial stewardship. Healthy friendships. Spiritual habits. Independence is learned slowly, one faithful choice at a time. Small acts of responsibility become character over the years.

But hear me clearly on this: independence does not mean isolation. The nuthatch is never truly alone. It belongs to an entire ecosystem of trees, shelter, seasons, and other creatures. Even the bird’s freedom depends upon something rooted and stable beneath it. That’s true for you, too.

Your Mom and I are not disappearing. We are simply changing roles. We will no longer lead every step of your life the way we once did. Part of becoming an adult is learning when to ask for help and learning that strength includes dependence upon others.

You will always have roots here. You will always have branches to return to. “Home,” for you, will begin to feel larger than it once did, but this house will always, in some special way, be home.

And maybe that’s the final lesson from the nuthatch. Growth often begins when life feels upside down. Sometimes wisdom comes from learning to move differently than you once did. Sometimes faith means trusting your footing on rough bark while the wind sways around you. Sometimes the unfamiliar path becomes the very place where God teaches you how to see.

So climb bravely, son. Trust deeply. Notice what others overlook.

And whenever the world feels too large or uncertain, remember this old rooted tree back home—the one with weathered bark and steady branches. There will always be a place for you to perch here for a while.

Love,
Dad