Over the past several years, family dinners have become surprisingly difficult to pull off. Between work, business travel, practices, homework, and the general busyness of life, it’s become common for someone to be eating early, eating late, or eating somewhere else entirely.
So when we were all around the dinner table after the first day of the new school year, it felt a little unusual.
I’m glad it happened.
Somewhere between dinner and ice cream, I made the passing comment that summer had flown by. It seemed like just yesterday the girls had plopped their backpacks on the floor after the last day of school, and now we were talking about teachers, homework, and everything the year ahead might hold.
A few bites later, my youngest daughter looked up and said,
“Dad, it went by fast because you were with us all summer having fun.“
I’ve been told daughters have a unique ability to get right to their daddy’s heart.
I’m convinced they don’t find it.
They carry a map.
And no, I wasn’t crying.
It was the habaneros.
I haven’t stopped thinking about her words since.
As many of you know, this wasn’t the summer I had planned. Finding myself without a job for the first time since I was fourteen years old wasn’t exactly on my vision board for 2026. Yet somewhere between cover letters, résumés, applications, networking, interviews, and trying to figure out what comes next, I’ve found myself around the dinner table more often. I’ve been available for afternoon conversations, impromptu ice cream runs, family outings, and all the wonderfully ordinary moments that usually disappear into the margins of a busy calendar.
Apparently, someone else noticed.
A few days later, I had lunch with a friend who is also in a career transition. As conversations between smart, handsome, middle-aged men often do, ours eventually wandered toward work, careers, and the strange tendency we have to let both consume more of our lives than they should.
He shared something an older gentleman had once told him.
“In almost everything you do, you’re replaceable.”
Someone else will eventually do your job.
Lead your team.
Run your business.
Every role is eventually filled by someone else.
He paused.
“But your children only get one you.”
We talked for another hour. One unexpected benefit of his new role, he said, was being able to attend more of his daughter’s volleyball matches.
The way he described them, complete with flailing arms and dramatic head movements, I can only assume the sport currently resembles a group of drunken, one-winged flamingos trying to return a half-deflated beach ball over a net.
He hasn’t missed a match.
And she knows it.
Work is important.
Ambition isn’t wrong.
Providing for our family matters.
But somewhere along the way, many of us quietly begin giving our replaceable responsibilities the time and attention reserved for things that aren’t, while assuming the people who are truly irreplaceable will understand.
My youngest daughter probably won’t remember what we had for dinner on the first day of school.
I doubt she’ll remember the conversation that followed.
But I’ll never forget what she said to me.
I hope she never forgets I was there.
The Ones Who Need One
A story about foster youth, sacrifice, servant leadership, and a man named Robert.
Read Letter
The Ones Who Need One
You’re eight years old.
Something is happening.
You don’t know what.
A stranger walks into your bedroom.
They don’t know the stuffed animal you sleep with.
Or that your favorite sweatshirt has holes in the sleeves.
They tell you to pack a few things.
You look around your room.
Your backpack.
Your worn-out sneakers by the bed.
The dinosaur you’ve slept with for as long as you can remember.
The creased and tattered family picture on the dresser.
How much of your life fits inside one trash bag?
“That’s enough,” says the stranger.
Where am I going?
How long will I be there?
Will I ever come back?
A police officer is talking in the hallway.
Your mom is crying, but she can’t seem to find the words.
The strangers keep telling you this is “for the best.”
If this is for the best, why is Mom crying?
Did I do something wrong?
Why can’t I stay with Mom?
Will she know where I am?
Will I know where she is?
Why doesn’t Mom stop them!?
Those questions don’t disappear when a child enters foster care.
If anything, they often become part of a child’s identity.
Children enter foster care for many reasons. Parental abuse. Neglect. Addiction. Mental illness. Domestic violence. Incarceration. Sometimes it’s one. More often, it’s several. Whatever brought them there, many arrive carrying trauma far beyond what any child should have to carry.
Research consistently shows children in foster care experience significantly higher rates of anxiety, depression, post-traumatic stress, educational disruption, and behavioral health challenges than their peers.
In Georgia alone, more than 15,000 children are in foster care on any given day. At the same time, providers struggle to recruit staff, caseworkers carry impossible caseloads, foster families remain in short supply, and placement options continue to lag behind the growing needs of the children they’re trying to serve.
Every crisis eventually reveals the people who quietly run toward it.
For the past few decades, Robert K. Willis has been one of them.
There’s a pretty good chance Robert is already wishing I’d stop talking about him.
That’s just who he is.
He’d much rather you remember the children than the man trying to help them.
Robert has become one of the most influential mentors in my life.
Not because of what he’s taught me, though that’s been significant.
Because of what he’s shown me.
Robert doesn’t spend much time talking about servant leadership.
He lives it.
Late-night phone calls.
Courtrooms.
Emergency placements.
Mentoring.
Advocating.
Driving children to school.
Driving teenagers to work.
Driving across Georgia because someone needed to know they hadn’t been forgotten.
Financial sacrifices.
Summer camps.
Days, sometimes weeks, away from home because every child deserves one.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Some of the greatest acts of service are carried out by people standing just outside the frame. Behind every late-night phone call, every missed dinner, and every week away has been his wife, Irvenia, whose quite faithfulness has made their ministry possible.
I often find myself thinking back to that eight-year-old carrying a trash bag.
Still scared.
Still confused.
Still wondering what they did wrong.
Then I imagine someone opening the door, kneeling to meet them at eye level, and saying,
“Welcome. My name is Mr. Robert. You’re safe here.”
They still don’t know what tomorrow holds.
But for tonight…
They know where they’ll sleep.
They know where they’ll eat.
They know someone is glad they’re there.
They know they’re loved.
Sometimes that’s enough to begin believing tomorrow might look different than yesterday.
If you’ve never heard of Atlanta Children’s Foundation or THE Village, its 250-acre campus serving children and youth in foster care, I’d encourage you to spend a few minutes learning about their work. And, of course, if you’d like to connect directly with Robert, I’d be happy to make the introduction.
Office Politics
What if office politics had campaign ads?
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Office Politics
The steady stream of political attack ads lately reminded me of one thing I don’t miss about corporate life.
Office politics.
John.
You can’t trust that guy…
Until next time…
Be kind.
Wave at the crossing guard.
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