There’s this personality test I was recently asked to take for my job where they compared your personality to different birds. Based on my answers, my results were:
30% Owl
8% Peacock
23% Eagle
40% Dove
With dove being the highest, it described me as compassionate, peaceful and a great listener. And while that sounds good—and honestly lines up with the man I’m trying to become—I haven’t always been a dove.
So I got curious. I started looking deeper into what these birds meant. (And yeah… I asked ChatGPT a few questions too.) It broke things down in a way that stuck with me:
Peacock (8%) — Expressive, charismatic, uplifting
Eagle (23%) — Driven, decisive, goal-oriented
Owl (30%) — Thoughtful, analytical, wise
There was more, but one line really stayed with me:
“You have more presence than you might realize.”
That hit me.
I’m a triplet—yeah, three of us. I’m the middle. There’s Joy, who was born first and won’t let us forget it, me, and Jeremiah, my built-in best friend. So I’ve never really been alone. Ever.
Then I looked up my name—Joseph. It means “God will add” or “God increases.” And honestly, I feel like my parents got that one right.
I grew up in church, so faith has always been around me. But recently, it’s become more real—more personal. Not just something I heard about, but something I’m actually living.
Now I’m a father. I’ve got two daughters—Ava and Alana. Ava’s my oldest, about to be a teenager (I’m not ready for that at all), and Alana is my youngest, my baby girl. And when I look at them, I don’t just see my kids—I see something deeper. I see love in its purest form.
And if I’m being honest, they can do almost no wrong in my eyes.
Which made me start thinking…
Growing up, I always heard about Joseph and how he went “from the pit to the palace.” It’s a great line—but nobody really talks about the middle. The process. The waiting. The pain.
Joseph went through betrayal, setbacks, and seasons that could’ve made him bitter. But somehow, he stayed grounded. He stayed faithful.
Now this Joseph—me—I haven’t always lived like that.
If I’m being real, I’ve been unfaithful in more ways than I can count. As a son, as a father, as a man trying to figure life out—I’ve made my share of wrong turns.
That’s why, if I’m honest, my story feels closer to the prodigal son.
He thought he had it all figured out. Wanted things on his own terms. Left home too early and ended up in places he never should’ve been.
I’ve been there.
But what gets me every time about that story isn’t the mistake—it’s the moment he decides to come back.
It says he “came to himself.”
And when he went home, his father didn’t hesitate. Didn’t lecture him. Didn’t make him earn his way back. He saw him from a distance…and ran to him.
Not just to accept him—but to walk him back home.
And here’s what I realized:
The prodigal son doesn’t have a name.
So I gave him one—Joseph.
“God will add. God increases.”
Because that’s what I’ve seen in my own life.
And every time I make my way back—no matter how far I’ve gone—I don’t find distance. I find strength. I find grace. I find that I’m still being built, still being shaped, still being added to.
Every time I make the decision to come back—to reset, to refocus, to get it right—I don’t find rejection. I find grace. I find growth. I find that somehow, even after everything, there’s still more for me.
And that’s where the dove comes in.
Because when I look at Joseph, the prodigal son, and even myself,I see the same thread:
Not perfection.
Not always getting it right.
But always coming back to a place of restoration.
The dove isn’t just peaceful—it represents return. It represents something steady, something that finds its way back no matter how far it’s gone.
Some days, I endure like Joseph.
Other days, I’m finding my way back like the prodigal son.
And lately, life has had a way of humbling me. Stretching me. Walking me through seasons I didn’t plan for—and honestly wouldn’t have chosen. Things shifting. Things breaking. Things being rebuilt in ways I’m still trying to understand.
But even here—especially here—I’m learning what it really means to be a man, a father and a son.
Not perfect.
Not finished.
But still choosing to show up. Still choosing peace.
Because I’m learning that “home” isn’t just a place—it’s a return.
A return to what grounds you.
A return to what grows you.
A return to the One who never left you.
And every time I make my way back—no matter how far I’ve gone—I don’t find distance. I find strength. I find grace. I find that I’m still being built, still being shaped, still being added to.
So I’m still here.
Still growing.
Still learning how to lead, how to love, how to be present—even when it’s hard.
Because maybe having “more presence than I realize” isn’t about having it all together.
Maybe it’s this:
No matter what I lose, no matter what changes, I don’t lose my peace—and I don’t forget my way home.
I choose to keep coming home—again and again.
BABL 