Yesterday, my sister had her first baby—and I don’t think I’ve stopped smiling since. Watching her step into motherhood stirred something deep in me. There’s a beauty in beginnings. A holiness, really. It’s a miracle wrapped in soft cries and tiny hands. I’m so incredibly happy for her and for all the adventures ahead. Sleepless nights, yes—but also heart-bursting joy.
The news took my wife and me down memory lane. We have two kids of our own—twelve and ten now. It feels like just yesterday we were pacing the floor with a fussy newborn at 3 a.m., wondering if sleep would ever return. It does, eventually. But while those nights were long, the years were short. Blink, and they’re not babies anymore. They’re full of personality and humor, testing boundaries, growing faster than our hearts can keep up.
But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
There’s a lot of hats I wear—husband, teacher, coach, community guy, sometimes handyman (though that one's hit-or-miss). But out of everything I’ve ever been or ever will be, the title I hold dearest is Dad. That’s the job I actually wanted. Not because it pays well or earns respect in the world, but because it fills me with a purpose no other role ever could.
And that’s something I hope my sister discovers in the days ahead—when she’s rocking her baby in the dark or laughing through tears at the chaos of it all. It’s in those small, unseen moments where love grows deepest. There’s no applause, no trophy, no clock to punch. Just a relentless love that keeps showing up.
When I think about fatherhood, I can’t help but think about how often the Bible refers to God as a Father. Not a boss, not a distant judge—but a Dad. Someone who draws near, who cares for His children, who disciplines in love and delights in who we are becoming. That’s the model we’re called to follow.
“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him.” —Psalm 127:3
It’s a reminder that being a parent isn’t a chore or an obligation—it’s a gift. A reward. Something entrusted to us by our Creator. And with that gift comes great responsibility.
My kids aren’t perfect. I’m certainly not. But every day I get the chance to shape their hearts, to lead by example, to offer grace, and to ask for it in return. I fail more often than I’d like. I get short-tempered, distracted, and tired. But even on the hard days, I’m still grateful. Because I know this calling matters more than anything else I’ll ever do.
And lately, I’ve been noticing the sweet fruit of all those early years. I get to watch my kids make their own s’mores around the fire pit. I see them organizing volleyball games in the front yard, laughing with friends and creating memories that stick. We take long scooter or bike rides through the neighborhood, sometimes racing, sometimes just talking about school, life, and everything in between.
They even give me their strong opinions on whether or not I should shave my beard—and they don’t hold back! Their personalities are growing right alongside their limbs, and I’m just grateful to be here for all of it.
Our culture doesn’t always elevate fatherhood. Too often, it’s portrayed as optional, comedic, or secondary. But being a dad is sacred work. It’s showing up when it’s hard. It’s being present when you’re tired. It’s loving unconditionally—even when the world is chaotic and loud.
And it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being there.
If there’s one thing I could tell new parents—my sister included—it’s this: The days are long, but the years are short. Don’t wish them away. Don’t let exhaustion rob you of joy. And don’t feel like you have to do it all on your own. Lean on God. Lean on family. Lean into the mess and the beauty and the mystery of raising a child.
Because someday, you’ll look back and realize those little moments—the bedtime stories, the spilled milk, the Lego landmines on the carpet—they were the big ones. That’s the good stuff. That’s where the purpose lives.
I think about how many people spend their lives chasing titles, accolades, or wealth. And while I understand the drive to provide and succeed, I’ve never once regretted choosing to be present at home instead of pursuing something flashier. My kids won’t remember my resume, but they’ll remember if I showed up. They’ll remember if I listened. They’ll remember if I loved them well.
That’s what I want my legacy to be.
So today, I celebrate my sister. I celebrate her journey into the wild, beautiful world of parenthood. And I pray that God walks closely with her every step of the way. That He fills her heart with strength and joy and grace for each new day.
And I reflect with a grateful heart for the road I’ve been on. For the two kids who call me Dad. For the sleepless nights and early morning cartoons and the chaos of school days and baseball practice. For the laughter at the dinner table and the quiet talks before bed. For watching them grow up right in front of me—making s’mores, biking beside me, demanding I NEVER shave!
It’s not flashy. It’s not fancy.
But it’s real. And it’s mine.
The news took my wife and me down memory lane. We have two kids of our own—twelve and ten now. It feels like just yesterday we were pacing the floor with a fussy newborn at 3 a.m., wondering if sleep would ever return. It does, eventually. But while those nights were long, the years were short. Blink, and they’re not babies anymore. They’re full of personality and humor, testing boundaries, growing faster than our hearts can keep up.
But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
There’s a lot of hats I wear—husband, teacher, coach, community guy, sometimes handyman (though that one's hit-or-miss). But out of everything I’ve ever been or ever will be, the title I hold dearest is Dad. That’s the job I actually wanted. Not because it pays well or earns respect in the world, but because it fills me with a purpose no other role ever could.
And that’s something I hope my sister discovers in the days ahead—when she’s rocking her baby in the dark or laughing through tears at the chaos of it all. It’s in those small, unseen moments where love grows deepest. There’s no applause, no trophy, no clock to punch. Just a relentless love that keeps showing up.
When I think about fatherhood, I can’t help but think about how often the Bible refers to God as a Father. Not a boss, not a distant judge—but a Dad. Someone who draws near, who cares for His children, who disciplines in love and delights in who we are becoming. That’s the model we’re called to follow.
“Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him.” —Psalm 127:3
It’s a reminder that being a parent isn’t a chore or an obligation—it’s a gift. A reward. Something entrusted to us by our Creator. And with that gift comes great responsibility.
My kids aren’t perfect. I’m certainly not. But every day I get the chance to shape their hearts, to lead by example, to offer grace, and to ask for it in return. I fail more often than I’d like. I get short-tempered, distracted, and tired. But even on the hard days, I’m still grateful. Because I know this calling matters more than anything else I’ll ever do.
And lately, I’ve been noticing the sweet fruit of all those early years. I get to watch my kids make their own s’mores around the fire pit. I see them organizing volleyball games in the front yard, laughing with friends and creating memories that stick. We take long scooter or bike rides through the neighborhood, sometimes racing, sometimes just talking about school, life, and everything in between.
They even give me their strong opinions on whether or not I should shave my beard—and they don’t hold back! Their personalities are growing right alongside their limbs, and I’m just grateful to be here for all of it.
Our culture doesn’t always elevate fatherhood. Too often, it’s portrayed as optional, comedic, or secondary. But being a dad is sacred work. It’s showing up when it’s hard. It’s being present when you’re tired. It’s loving unconditionally—even when the world is chaotic and loud.
And it’s not about being perfect. It’s about being there.
If there’s one thing I could tell new parents—my sister included—it’s this: The days are long, but the years are short. Don’t wish them away. Don’t let exhaustion rob you of joy. And don’t feel like you have to do it all on your own. Lean on God. Lean on family. Lean into the mess and the beauty and the mystery of raising a child.
Because someday, you’ll look back and realize those little moments—the bedtime stories, the spilled milk, the Lego landmines on the carpet—they were the big ones. That’s the good stuff. That’s where the purpose lives.
I think about how many people spend their lives chasing titles, accolades, or wealth. And while I understand the drive to provide and succeed, I’ve never once regretted choosing to be present at home instead of pursuing something flashier. My kids won’t remember my resume, but they’ll remember if I showed up. They’ll remember if I listened. They’ll remember if I loved them well.
That’s what I want my legacy to be.
So today, I celebrate my sister. I celebrate her journey into the wild, beautiful world of parenthood. And I pray that God walks closely with her every step of the way. That He fills her heart with strength and joy and grace for each new day.
And I reflect with a grateful heart for the road I’ve been on. For the two kids who call me Dad. For the sleepless nights and early morning cartoons and the chaos of school days and baseball practice. For the laughter at the dinner table and the quiet talks before bed. For watching them grow up right in front of me—making s’mores, biking beside me, demanding I NEVER shave!
It’s not flashy. It’s not fancy.
But it’s real. And it’s mine.
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