When I went to interview for my position with the Yankees, I showed up in a brand-new suit and tie.

I was interviewing for a job that would have me in a weight room or on a baseball field 90% of the time.

Nobody told me I needed to dress up. In fact the guy who was interviewing me looked at me awkwardly when I walked in and said, “why the heck are you wearing that?” 

We had a good laugh as I was sweating bullets outside, walking the fields.

But I never based what to wear on what the job required—I based it on what the moment required.

I wore a suit out of reverence.

Reverence for the opportunity.

Reverence for the people who took the time to interview me.

Reverence for the standard of excellence that the Yankees organization represented.

It wasn’t about trying to impress anyone. It was about recognizing the significance of the moment and presenting myself accordingly.

That’s why, for our science fair, I required the students to dress up.

Not because a blazer makes their hypothesis any better.

Not because a tie suddenly validates their months of work.

But because presentation shapes posture, and posture shapes perspective.

I wanted them to feel the weight of what they had accomplished—not just another assignment completed, but a major undertaking brought to completion.

I wanted them to know that when they stood up in front of their peers, parents, and judges, they weren’t just students reciting facts—they were young men and women standing confidently behind their work.

And I wanted them to see that dressing well isn’t about vanity or appearances—it’s about respect.

Respect for the process.

Respect for the effort they put in.

Respect for themselves.

But this lesson isn’t just about science fairs.

We live in a world that has slowly lost its reverence.

We’ve traded honor for convenience.

We’ve replaced formality with informality.

We’ve forgotten that sometimes, the way we present ourselves isn’t just about us—it’s about showing respect for something greater than ourselves.

That’s why we still dress up for church.

Not because God needs us to, but because we need to.

It’s a small act, but small acts shape who we become.

And if we want to raise children who understand reverence—who see the value in respecting sacred moments, hard work, and the presence of something greater than themselves—then we have to give them opportunities to practice reverence.

Even in something as simple as a science fair.

Because how we show up for the small things says a lot about how we’ll show up for the big things.

And reverence is worth showing up for.

You’ve probably heard the idea that we only get 18 summers with our kids.

It’s everywhere. The message is simple: Make the most of the time you have, because once your kids grow up, that’s it.

When I first heard it, I nodded along. It made sense. It even felt motivating.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized: this idea doesn’t align with the vision I have for my family.

It assumes that at 18, our relationship with our kids is essentially over—that they’ll go off into the world, leaving us behind, and our job as parents is simply to launch them into independence.

This is the prevailing wisdom, and reality, in Western culture. We’re told that raising kids means preparing them to become rugged individuals who “make it on their own.”

But that narrative? It’s not rooted in family and certainly doesn’t line up with what the Gospel calls us to. 

It’s rooted in hyper-individualism.

And I don’t buy it.

Instead, I want to raise children who are contributors—not just to society but to our family mission and vision that God has called us to. I want to build something that lasts far beyond 18 summers.

But here’s the thing: to build something like that, you need a vision.

When I started thinking about this, I struggled. I didn’t have a clear picture of what I wanted for my family’s future. My ideas were scattered, and honestly, a little vague.

Frankly, they still are.

What am I really working toward? What kind of legacy do I want to leave behind? 

Maybe a better question is: what vision am I not ok with coming true?

If you’re anything like I was, maybe you’re asking yourself similar questions.

This is the hard but essential work of leadership—getting clarity about where you’re headed so you can start taking intentional steps to get there.

For me, this clarity came when I realized my family isn’t just a collection of individuals living under the same roof. We’re a team. A ministry. A mission.

And our mission doesn’t expire when the kids turn 18.

When Mandy and I started building a vision for our family, we asked:

• What do we want things to look like when we’re great grandparents?

• How can we create traditions that bind us together, even as our kids grow up?

• What legacy do we want to leave for future generations?

• What are the stories that are important to pass down?

• How do we faithfully steward our gifts so that we provide value to others?

Answering these questions gave us focus. It allowed us to create a game plan for our family’s future—one that’s built around faith, connection, and contribution.

Now, it’s your turn.

What’s your vision for your family?

Even if it feels fuzzy right now, don’t let that stop you. The key is starting the conversation—with yourself, your spouse, and eventually your kids.

And if you’re unsure where to begin, that’s exactly why I created my coaching program. It’s designed to help dads like you craft a vision, even a fuzzy one, for your family’s future and then create a game plan to make it happen.

Because here’s the truth: You don’t have to settle for just 18 summers. You can build a family legacy that lasts for generations. 

What does that look like for you? Hit reply and let me know.