Dear David,
A letter to the soft-hearted men who still believe they’re allowed to feel.
I’ve been thinking about you. Not as the crowned king or Goliath’s slayer. But as the boy who wept on fields and composed his ache into song. The one who didn’t hide from grief or beauty or need. And I wonder—if you were alive today, how would they receive you? A man who danced in public with his chest bare, cried over friends, mourned his enemies, and wrote entire chapters of vulnerability— Would they call you too soft? Too sensitive? Not man enough? Would they post sermon clips saying, “God doesn’t respond to emotions, only to His Word”— as if your Psalms weren’t Scripture now, as if you didn’t cry your way into divine intimacy?
Today’s world likes things neat.
Clean theology.
Sharp doctrine.
They want God to be a vending machine: input promise, receive miracle. But you? You just showed up. Some days with praise. Other days with rage. Many days with no plan—just your heart in your hands. And still—you were called a man after God’s own heart. Not because you quoted chapter and verse. But because you dared to be real. You let your longings be seen. You made your wounds into worship. You led armies and played the harp. You confessed without curating. You danced and cried and begged and trusted —all in the same body. These days, a man like you might be mocked. Told to “man up.” Told to stop being dramatic. Told to pray more “strategically.” They’d call your tears weakness, your openness a liability. They wouldn’t understand that faith sometimes leaks through cracks, that intimacy with God is sometimes messy. But you knew. You knew that wholeness doesn’t mean perfection— it means nothing is hidden. You brought it all to Him. And heaven didn’t flinch.
There are men today—good men— who are bleeding under the weight of detachment. Who want to cry but don’t. Who want to be known but fear it’ll cost them respect. Who’ve been told that silence is strength and need is weakness. But you lived another way. You remind us that courage and tenderness can live in the same voice. That devotion isn’t always polished. That to lead doesn’t mean to harden. That to be after God’s heart, you sometimes have to pour out your own. Thank you, David. For being a map. For showing that the soft-spoken don’t have to become loud to be seen. That the broken can still be beloved. That vulnerability, far from disqualifying us, often makes us holy.
With honour,
Meestique A feeler, a writer, and a believer in softness that still leads.
The Empathic Social Observer.
The Empathic Social Observer 