This letter to my children is something I’m not good at saying out loud.
Anyone who knows me — I’ll show up, I’ll work, I’ll carry whatever needs carrying. But sitting down and putting into words what I actually feel about the people I love most? That’s harder for me than most things in life.
So I’m writing it. Because I’ve learned something lately: unsaid things have a way of staying unsaid forever if you’re not careful. And I refuse to let that happen with you.
I lost my dad when I was in junior high. November 1983. He was 55.
I’m 54 right now.
I have stents in my chest — including one in the widow maker. I’ve got a procedure coming up. And if you think that number — 55 — doesn’t sit in the back of my mind when I look at all of you, I’d be lying to you. And lying to you is the one thing I promised myself I’d never do on this blog or in this life.
So here’s what I need you to know while I’m standing here, healthy enough to say it.
You are not just my kids and grandkids.
You are my legacy. The only one that matters.
Not what I built. Not what I earned. Not what I accomplished at work or what anyone said about me when I walked out of a room.
You.
Every one of you carries something I poured into you — even on the days I didn’t do it right. Even in the seasons I was distracted, stressed, running on empty, sitting in the driveway in my truck needing five more minutes before I could walk through the door. Even then, you were the reason I got out of the truck.
You always were.
I want to be honest about something I haven’t said clearly enough.
I wasn’t a perfect father. I made mistakes I can’t take back. There were moments I let frustration lead when patience was what was needed. Moments I was physically present but mentally somewhere else. Moments the weight of life got loud enough that I didn’t hear what you were actually saying to me.
I’m not proud of that. But I’m not hiding from it either.
What I can tell you is this: every single day, I am trying to become the man you deserve to have in your corner. Not perfect — I gave up on perfect a long time ago. But better. More present. More patient. More rooted in something bigger than my own strength so that when you need me, I’m actually there.
“I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength.” — Philippians 4:13
That verse used to feel like something you put on a locker room wall. Now it’s how I get out of bed on hard days. Because some days, that’s what it takes.
To my grandchildren,letter to my children
You are my wealth. Not a figure of speech. My actual wealth.
I love you more than air itself. More than I have words for. When I look at your faces I see everything good that came out of this family, everything God was building even through the hard seasons, every prayer that got answered in a way I didn’t expect.
I want God watching over you every single day. Not just on Sundays. Not just when things get hard. Every hour, every decision, every moment when the world tries to pull you somewhere you shouldn’t go — I want Him right there, getting in the way when needed, clearing the path when it’s right.
That’s what I pray for. Every morning. Without exception.
That’s the prayer over your life from me. Every single day.
Here’s what I want for all of you more than anything else:
Each other.
I want you close. Not just at holidays. Not just when something goes wrong. I want you to be the people who show up for each other on the ordinary Tuesdays. The ones who call just to call. The ones who don’t let time and distance and busy schedules quietly pull apart something that God put together.
Your bond with each other is worth protecting. Don’t let life talk you out of it.
And keep God at the center of it. Not as a rule. As the foundation. Because I’ve tried it both ways — building my life on my own understanding and building it on His — and I can tell you without hesitation which one holds when everything around you shakes.
Put Him first. In your marriages, your friendships, your decisions, your hard days and your good ones. Let Him lead.
That’s not just advice. That’s the most important thing I know. And I want it for you more than I want anything for myself.
I started this blog because I wanted to be real. But this letter to my children is also why I started it.
But if I’m being completely honest — I also started it for you.
So that someday, if you ever want to know who your dad was, who your grandfather was, beyond what you saw on the surface — it’s right here. The doubt. The faith. The failures. The things I’m still working on. The love I didn’t always say out loud but never stopped feeling for a single day of my life.
I want you better off than I ever dreamed I could be. Happier. Steadier. More loved. More at peace. More connected to God and to each other than any generation before you.
That’s not just a hope.
It’s a prayer I’m putting in front of God every morning until He calls me home.
And until then — I’m here. Still standing. Still trying. Still yours.
All my love, always.
