I once prided myself on my identity---engineer, consultant, partner in a technology firm---and I relished my role as provider for my family. Then the recession hit, and suddenly I needed to find a job. But no job materialized. God will lead me in the right direction. He knows who I am---what kind of skills I have.

I lost touch with the working world---colleagues failed to return my calls, business friends met for lunch without me. I grew to hate social events. I dreaded meeting new people and the question they always asked, "What do you do for a living?"

One night my wife, Tonya, said, "I think God's calling me back to teaching." I protested. I told myself I was protecting her, but in reality, a permanent unemployment terrified me. We were committed to a parent staying home with the children. If Tonya took a job, I'd have to quit my search. Lord, who am I now? Why have you abandoned me?

Tonya landed a job within a month, but I didn't take the change well. I slept in late and rarely shaved. On her first day at work, I dragged myself out of bed, threw a cap over my messy hair, and struggled to get my children ready for preschool. At the carpool line, the kids hugged me goodbye. "I love you, Papa," they both said as I stared at a distant cloud in the gray February sky. "I love you, too," I mumbled.

The first evening I made dinner, chaos reigned. I hadn't so much as steamed rice since college. Tonya arrived home to an eruption of dirty pots, mixing bowls, and spilled ingredients, with the hint of burning tomato sauce in the air. I'd over-cooked the cheese ravioli. They exploded. I nuked frozen pizza, instead.

Over dinner, I confided that I needed help---laundry instructions, store diagrams on grocery lists so I could find things. Our huge food warehouse overwhelmed me. Finding a simple can of juice required exasperating detective work. Months earlier, I'd provided for my family and helped run a business. Now my family couldn't count on me to locate the bread. I'm a nobody.

I continued to avoid social gatherings---particularly events with other men. I skipped the breakfast at church and the monthly fellowship. These men provided well for their families, and their jobs identified them as successful. I couldn't reveal my helplessness. I didn't feel like a man. I felt like a child.

One day as I picked up the kids from their Christian preschool, Lauren asked, "What's a child of God?"

"Being a child of God means that God made you---that He's your heavenly Father. It also means that He'll always love you and take care of you."

Jared chimed in, "Like you take care of us?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

Lauren gazed out the window. "At what age will I stop being a child of God?"

"Never. Even grown-ups are God's children. It's who we are."

"Even you?"

The sun shining through the windshield warmed my face, and I smiled at Lauren's question. "Yes, even me."

Jared said, "I'm glad you take care of us. You're a good Papa."

My true identity. With all the stress of losing my job, I'd forgotten who I really was. Maybe God hadn't abandoned me. Maybe He was leading me to be a stay-at-home dad.