Absolutely the worst thing about this job is the travel and

Hear the lament of Roy Clark, whose life was crowned with music, yet whose heart bore a burden heavier than any stage could show. He declared with sorrowful honesty: “Absolutely the worst thing about this job is the travel and being away from family. I have a wife and three wonderful children, the kids are all active in sports and it’s very difficult to up and leave and miss them growing up.” These words cut deeper than any melody, for they remind us that even in triumph, the soul may ache for what it cannot hold close. Fame may gather applause, yet the heart hungers for the laughter of children and the warmth of home.

The meaning of his confession is eternal: that no wealth, no honor, no recognition can equal the treasure of family. The stage may echo with cheers, the journey may bring gold, but the fleeting years of a child’s life cannot be purchased back once they have passed. Clark, though beloved by multitudes, knew that the greatest stage was his own household, where his children played and his wife’s steadfast love waited. To be absent from that sacred theater was a wound that no applause could heal.

The origin of this truth lies in the very fabric of human life. In ancient times, warriors and rulers, though victorious abroad, often wept for the homes they left behind. The Greek hero Odysseus wandered for years, facing monsters and gods, but his heart was fixed always upon Ithaca, where his wife Penelope and his son Telemachus awaited. Victory over Troy was hollow compared to the yearning for reunion with family. Thus, Clark stands in the same lineage: a man torn between duty to his craft and devotion to his kin.

Consider too the tale of Marcus Aurelius, emperor of Rome. Though he ruled a mighty empire, his writings in Meditations reveal the tenderness of a father and husband who longed for simplicity, for the closeness of those he loved. Surrounded by wealth and power, he wrote not of his triumphs, but of his grief when family was distant or lost. His wisdom was the same as Clark’s: that a man’s true kingdom is not his empire or his career, but the hearth where his children laugh and grow.

The lesson is clear: guard the time with your family as though it were the most precious jewel. For careers will rise and fall, audiences will cheer and then fall silent, but the days of a child’s youth vanish like morning mist. To trade away these moments too easily is to awaken one day with riches in hand but emptiness in the soul. Clark’s honesty is both confession and warning: success without presence at home carries the weight of regret.

Practical actions rise from this wisdom. Choose with intention how you spend your hours. If work or ambition demands travel and absence, then let every moment at home be lived with fullness—no distractions, no divided heart. Write letters, call often, send tokens of love when you must be far, but above all, when you are present, be truly present. Let your family know that though the world may claim your talents, your heart belongs first to them.

And so, beloved listener, heed the teaching hidden in Roy Clark’s sorrow. Let not your children’s laughter be a memory you only hear through others. Let not your spouse’s steadfastness be taken for granted. For in the end, the truest measure of a life is not the fame won nor the gold gathered, but the love you gave and the moments you cherished at home. Hold your family close, for they are your eternal song—the music that will never fade.