Why I let my kids wear whatever they want



Every morning my young children choose their own outfits. They pretty much get to wear whatever they want.

I might suggest something with short sleeves on a sunny day or something made of wool when it's 11 degrees outside in the middle of February, but other than that I never really tell them, “No, you can’t wear that.”

On the other hand, having so many options increases the likelihood of making a bad decision. We simply aren't meant to have an infinity of choices. We aren’t that wise.

It’s not because they run the show. It’s not because they have the finest taste in clothing either. It’s because they can’t really make any bad choices.

You see, there are only good choices in their closets.

Crocs-free zone

There are no graphic T-shirts with stupid logos, no Crocs, no lime green sweatpants, and no hoodies with dinosaur plates running along the back.

Make no mistake, if we had all those things in the closet, they would probably choose that kind of stuff. But we don’t. And so they don't.

Take our son's closet: It is full of button-ups and polo shirts. Oxford cloth, flannel, poplin, seersucker, cotton pique. His dresser is full of blue jeans, khakis, and chino shorts. There are also, of course, cotton and wool sweaters on the shelves as well. Cream, brown, and navy.

Our daughter's closet is full of dresses. Thin, flowery ones for summer. Thicker plaids for the winter. Plain, practical cotton maxi dresses for everyday life. Leggings for when it’s cold. Cardigans as well. Cable knit in navy and gray.

Because we've left them with only good options, we're free to let the kids choose their clothes, knowing they'll always look just fine.

Loving limitations

This has an obvious practical purpose. We want our kids to look decent and don’t want to get involved in an endless back-and-forth every single day, litigating why they can or can’t wear the cartoon sweatshirt. But it’s also about giving them agency within reason. They have freedom and choice within a narrow framework set by us.

We also have our selfish reasons. We want to like how our kids look, and to be honest, it’s more pleasant looking at nice clothes. I would rather look at a plaid shirt than a stupid cartoon. Wouldn’t you?

There's a bigger lesson here too. It’s about the need for limitations, guardrails, and choices within reasonable parameters. Any parent knows that kids need rules. Every parent is different. Some are more permissive than others, but no mother or father lets their kids do whatever they want whenever they want. Children need to be guided; setting them loose with a “good luck” and a shrug doesn't cut it.

The metaphor extends to society as a whole. What happens when we have ultimate choice? What do we do when we have no limits? When everything is on the table and there is nothing holding us back?

Option overwhelm

Decision paralysis is, of course, a thing. People stand in front of the options set before them, and they freeze. They don’t know what to do. They don’t know what school to choose, what job to take, what girl they should ask out, or what kind of man they should marry. When people are bombarded with the feeling that they have every possible option on earth, they often end up choosing nothing at all because it’s all just too overwhelming.

On the other hand, having so many options increases the likelihood of making a bad decision. We simply aren't meant to have an infinity of choices. We aren’t that wise. We have free will, but we don’t manage it so well. We can’t really control ourselves that much. We aren’t meant to be that free. We need limitations if we want to stay on the right track.

God and guardrails

Ever since having kids, I have been ruminating on the fact that though the distance between myself and my children is so great, we are all, in some way, still (God’s) children. Knowing this isn’t an excuse to be an idiot. It’s not an abdication of responsibility. It’s an acknowledgment that we are just not as smart as we think we are. We are not that great.

Let loose in a department store-size closet, we choose the lime green sweatpants. Without guardrails, we drive the car over a cliff. It’s why we have laws, it’s why we have religion, it’s why we have God.

We are not Him; we are foolish human beings. We need help doing the right thing. We can’t figure it out on our own. It’s true for 5-year olds getting dressed in the morning, and it’s true for us former 5-year-olds, adults trying to do what’s right in a messy world.

Fatherhood has ruined peace and quiet for me



I’ve been in Italy for the past 10 days, and I’m bored.

Yes, I’m bored, but not in the way you may think, and not for the reasons you may suspect. I haven’t been bored my entire time here.

My tolerance for input has increased since becoming a father, and now anything less than chaos is kind of a boring breeze.

The first week was packed to the gills. I was co-hosting a retreat centered around Josef Pieper’s "Leisure: The Basis of Culture." The days were full of stimulating, productive discussion with like spirits. Great food, great cigars, great beer, great sights, great minds, great insights, great developments. It was a busy week, a fruitful week.

But the retreat is over, and now I’m bored.

Missing the bickering

Why am I bored?

Because I am dull and just want to sit inside and watch television all day? No. I don’t like TV. Because I can’t entertain myself? No. I’m pretty creative. Because I don’t have a job or any obligations and thusly suffer from a kind of postmodern ennui? No. I have a job, that’s what I am doing here. Just yesterday, I drove eight hours south and will be here for the week taking photos for a photo book, writing, and working. I’ve been working ever since I landed.

So then, why am I bored?

Because I’m alone. My wife and kids are at home. All the yelling and screaming that I have become so used to over the past few years are on the other side of the world. The bickering over who stole whose toy first is still happening I am sure, but it’s out of earshot.

The endless questions about cars, trees and if we are going to get ice cream later have been paused. The nagging feeling about safety — that feeling that wears you down over the course of the day — is absent from my quiet mind.

Off-duty dad

I would think I would love this trip all alone: the chance to be free of fatherly responsibilities for a couple of weeks; the opportunity to focus on work without distraction; the chance to be by myself again. But I don’t love it. It was fine for a couple days, novel in a way, but now it’s just kind of boring.

My tolerance for input has increased since becoming a father, and now anything less than chaos is kind of a boring breeze. My love has expanded in a way that isn’t so easy to explain. It might be summed up by that feeling you get at the end of the day. You can’t wait for your kids to go to bed because you are exhausted and fed up, yet 25 minutes after they are sleeping, you feel the need to go into their room again and give them a kiss because you miss them.

What the hell is that? One of the strange feelings that only parents know.

Been there, done that

I’ve seen all this stuff before. I’ve been to Italy. I’ve already taken in all the vistas I’m taking photos of today. I’ve already experienced all this, and it doesn’t really interest me doing it alone. When I was 25 and single, sure. When I’m 38 with a wife and kids, not really. I’ve seen enough; I would rather show them.

Some guys have a fear of settling down and starting a family. They are afraid of getting trapped or stuck with no way out. In a sense, they are right. When you have children, you are trapping yourself. You are forced together as a man and a woman. You are stuck forever as a father. You cannot go back. Your life is no longer only yours. You will never be as free as you were once before.

Stretching the soul

It’s true in all the shallow, obvious ways. But it’s true in a deeper, stranger, more emotional way, as well. My soul has been expanded outward. It's broader than it was when I was just me. Yet, somehow, it didn’t become more shallow in the process. It’s actually grown deeper at the same time. It's one of the mysteries of love. It grows.

I am no longer contained in a tight little shell that follows me wherever I go. I want to bring my kids with me, not out of duty — though duty is, of course, important — but because I am kind of bored without them. Because I want to share my world with them. It's not because I love them — though I very much do — but because I like them.

From island to archipelago

I know that as soon as I get home, the chaos will hit me like a two-by-four right in the face. I will be forced to dole out instructions and mediate arguments. I will be exhausted by the time 8 p.m. rolls around. I will snap my fingers once and sternly tell them to stop whatever it is that they are doing. But in all of that, I will be whole as I know myself to be at this stage in my life.

Having a family means you are no longer only you. Your children are also you. Your sense of wholeness is deeper, yet more terrifyingly fragile at the same time. You are no longer protected and self-contained. You stop being an island and grow into an archipelago. What it means to be you means more than merely you.

That’s why I am bored here in Italy. I’m here, but it’s only one part, and I miss the whole thing.

My dad's old-school wisdom is exactly what the world needs to hear



It’s hard to believe it’s been nearly three years since my dad passed away.

As we honor and celebrate the incredible fathers in our lives this Father's Day, I find myself reflecting deeply on my own dad and the lasting impact he made — not only on me but on many others.

From the time I was a little girl, he taught me lessons that have shaped who I am today — lessons I carry with me and will pass on to my own children.

Like all of us, my dad was imperfect and faced his own struggles; he was flawed, as we all are in our humanity here on this side of heaven. Though I miss him deeply, I am profoundly grateful for the timeless truths he instilled in me and for the lasting wisdom he left behind.

Character and integrity over reputation

My father taught me that character and integrity matter more than reputation — that we are only as good as our word, a principle rooted in Matthew 5:37, “Let your ‘Yes’ be ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No,’ ‘No.’”

Growing up, I can remember several times when I’d commit to one party, only to later find out that a more exciting one was happening at the same time. Of course, I wanted to ditch the one I already said "yes" to for something better, but my dad would remind me that a person’s character is measured not by how popular or liked she is but by whether she can be trusted to follow through — even when it costs her something.

He showed me that faithfulness in the small things matters deeply because God has called us to work with our whole hearts.

That lesson was hard for me as a kid, and candidly, it’s still hard sometimes. But over time, I’ve come to see that being true to your word builds something reputation never can: real trust.

My dad was the kind of man who dealt fairly with everyone. He didn’t cut corners, didn’t shade the truth, and never made promises he didn’t intend to keep.

If he said he’d be there, he showed up. If he sold you a car, you’d walk away knowing everything about it — probably more than you wanted to. He wasn’t interested in getting the better end of a deal. He was interested in doing right by people.

That kind of consistency — honesty in the small things and integrity when no one’s watching — has deeply shaped how I want to live. His example has challenged me to keep my commitments, to speak truthfully, and to value being trustworthy more than being liked. Because in the end, character and integrity don’t just reflect who we are — they reflect the God we serve.

Work ethic and diligence matters

I don’t think I’ve ever met a harder worker than my dad.

His work ethic and perseverance were unwavering. There were very few things he didn’t master — either through natural ability or sheer determination. Though he was an engineer by trade, his work didn’t end when he clocked out. When he wasn’t solving complex problems at work, you’d find him under the hood of one of his kids’ cars changing the oil, fixing something broken in the house, working on a project, rebuilding a computer, or building a deck.

If something needed to be done, he either knew how to do it — or he figured it out. His capacity to take on responsibility and execute with excellence was unmatched.

With nine kids in the house, there wasn’t much time for rest or hobbies, especially given the amount of wear and tear we unleashed on everything. He simply kept going — oftentimes too much.

Through his consistency, he taught me that hard work — even in the most mundane of tasks — will outlast and outshine natural talent every time. He showed me that faithfulness in the small things matters deeply because God has called us to work with our whole hearts, as we are working for Him — not just for people, as Colossians 3:23 reminds us.

My dad lived that out. He modeled diligence not for recognition, but because it was the right thing to do.

One of the most lasting lessons he left me was the value of persistence over time. Proverbs 13:11 says, “Wealth gained hastily will dwindle, but whoever gathers little by little will increase it.” My dad believed in that “little by little” way of living — slow, steady, and faithful progress.

He saw potential in me that I hadn’t yet discovered, and he knew that sometimes, the only way to grow was to push past fear and just do the hard thing.

I remember one night in high school, feeling completely overwhelmed by the amount of schoolwork I had to finish. I walked into his office — slumped, dramatic, and hoping for sympathy. Without even needing to hear the full story, he gently asked, “What’s the matter?” I poured out my complaints about the impossible workload. He listened, smiled kindly, and asked a question I’d heard from him many times before: “How do you eat an elephant?”

I groaned, but I knew the answer (and that he was right): “One bite at a time.”

That simple phrase, shared in a moment of stress, has never left me. When life piles on, and responsibilities feel too heavy to manage, I still hear his voice reminding me that you don’t have to do it all at once — you just have to take the next bite. And keep going.

Overcome fear and take calculated risks

My dad encouraged me to face fear head-on — whether it was the fear of failing, trying something new and difficult, or simply the fear of what others might think. He reminded me often that courage isn’t the absence of fear but the choice to move forward despite it.

Ironically, he was a remarkably cautious man in many areas of life. He double-checked the house locks, read every instruction manual in great detail, and rarely took unnecessary risks. But when it came to things like dirt biking, he threw caution to the wind — full throttle ahead, dust flying behind him. It wasn’t recklessness; it was a certain kind of boldness that showed up when it mattered most.

He taught me that you can live with care and wisdom and still be brave when it counts.

I had never ridden a dirt bike before in my life, but my dad figured if I could drive a stick shift, I could handle a motocross bike. Same concept, right? So with only a few brief instructions, he tossed me on the bike and told me to go. I was terrified, but he wasn’t. He believed I could do it, and more importantly, he believed in what I could become on the other side of my fear.

The same thing happened when I had my learner’s permit.

One day, out of nowhere, he told me to get on the highway. “You’ll be fine,” he said casually. “You can do it,” he encouraged. I couldn’t believe he trusted me enough to merge into fast-moving traffic — but he did. And that trust taught me to trust myself. He saw potential in me that I hadn’t yet discovered, and he knew that sometimes, the only way to grow was to push past fear and just do the hard thing.

In college, that same fear crept in again, this time in the form of a tough class. I remember calling him, anxious that I might earn my first-ever C (clearly, grades were an idol for me). Despite studying hard, I was barely making low Bs, and the final exam was looming. I told him how overwhelmed I felt. He listened and then asked, “Did you study hard? Are you doing your best?” I said I was. He replied simply, “Then stop worrying. Trust that God will take care of the rest. Do your part — and let go of the fear.”

He reminded me that any strength we have is a gift from God — not something we create on our own.

I barely squeaked by with a B, but that wasn’t the point. And a C would’ve been good and humbling for me, no doubt. However, the point was learning to let go of the fear of failure and do my best, trusting God with the outcome.

That principle has carried me through far more than just school. My dad taught me that failing isn’t the enemy — fear is. And faith, courage, and a little bit of grit are often all we need to keep going.

Surrender over self-sufficiency

As my dad battled ALS — a terminal disease that gradually weakens the nerves controlling muscles, making it harder to move, speak, eat, and eventually breathe — he gave me some pivotal advice he knew I would especially need.

We share a strength that often masks a deep weakness: self-sufficiency. Every good trait carries its own Achilles’ heel, and this one is no exception. Because of his ability to tackle life’s hardest challenges and his relentless determination to figure things out, my dad could’ve earned gold medals for his self-sufficiency.

But he reminded me that any strength we have is a gift from God — not something we create on our own. He cautioned me that our talents and abilities are meant to be stewarded — to bless others and bring glory to God — not to fuel self-reliance or pride. It’s not about our own strength but His and His alone. He wished he had been more faithful to lean on God rather than himself.

That conversation was sobering, and it struck me exactly where it needed to. I can easily take pride in my abilities and the skills I’ve worked tirelessly to develop, but ultimately, God has given me the health, the drive, and the capacity to do what I do. Not me.

I’m thankful my dad saw this weakness in me enough to impart one last valuable lesson that I’m continuing to work on: A life surrendered is more valuable than a life of self-sufficiency. That’s all God wants from us, after all.

Dads: Want to leave a legacy for your kids? Focus on living like this.



Too many children in America are growing up without a father. Sadly, even when there is a father in the home, although he is physically present, he is often emotionally absent.

On this Father’s Day, I want to reflect upon a simple premise: To leave a legacy, you must live a legacy.

None of us will ever get everything right. But we can choose to be faithful even when we mess up.

Leaving a legacy for your kids is certainly important, but the emphasis of scripture is living a legacy. If we’re going to pass our faith along, we must first possess our faith. Fathers must confess their faith openly while also living it and walking in purity and integrity.

Little eyes are watching you, Dad. There’s no place in our lives for the stain of moral impurity or the lack of integrity. We need to be setting the highest possible standards for our lives, not seeing how close to sin we can get without being burned.

So much about being a father is about being the leader of the home.

Consider the questions:

  • How are you living?
  • What kind of leader are you?

If you are a follower of Christ, you’ll be living right and you’ll be the right kind of leader in your family, in your community, and your church.

A man who pursues integrity and follows Christ in His holiness and purity is a godly father who can faithfully lead his family in truth.

Following Jesus means humbling yourself enough to admit when you're wrong. Maybe you've lost your temper, been distracted and disengaged at home, or ignored what God’s been nudging you to confront. Leading well starts with being led — by Christ.

It’s about more than clocking a few distracted minutes with your kids each day. It’s about living a life they can watch and imitate. Can they see that you follow Jesus — not because you say it, but because it’s obvious in the way you live?

That’s the kind of legacy that matters.

None of us will ever get everything right. But we can choose to be faithful even when we mess up.

Sons need to see a dad who doesn’t just talk about values but actively pursues Christ. Daughters need to see their father love their mother with the same faithfulness and sacrifice Christ showed His church.

Dads, your children don’t need a perfect father. They need a present one. They need a praying one, and they need a passionate one. They don’t need a weekend warrior or a distant provider. They need someone who’s following Jesus and letting Jesus lead him every day.

If we do that — if we stay close to Christ — we won’t just leave a legacy. We’ll live one. Right here, right now, in our homes, in our churches, and in the hearts of the children who are watching us every day.

As we consider the significance of Father’s Day, let’s make it our lifelong goal to be faithful in God’s eyes — and not just be successful by the world’s standards.

In the end, we may never be the smartest, richest, or most accomplished men in the room. But we can be the fathers our children need and the followers Christ has called us to be.

How strong fathers shatter a poisonous narrative about manhood — one child at a time



“Boys will be boys.”

I know this because I have two of them — and I’m still one at heart. Give me a cardboard tube, and it quickly becomes a sword or a lightsaber (complete with sound effects). My sons do the same. My daughter? Not so much.

Fatherhood matters — not just sentimentally, but statistically.

But beneath the innocent play and imaginary battles lies something deeper, something wired into the heart of every man: the call to provide and protect.

It’s a calling that many men feel innately, but tragically, our culture has done all it can to distract from this responsibility and delay the transition to true manhood. Worse still, modern messaging often reshapes manhood into a version that previous generations wouldn’t even recognize: one of detachment, passivity, or perpetual adolescence.

Nowhere is this more evident than when an unexpected pregnancy enters the picture.

Too often, fathers are overlooked or written off as irrelevant to the decision-making process, either by societal expectation or personal retreat. But at thousands of pregnancy help organizations across the country, that narrative is changing. These centers are not only supporting women. They are increasingly reaching out to men as well, challenging them to rise to the occasion and embrace fatherhood.

In fact, in the past two years alone, programming specifically designed for men at pregnancy help centers has grown by 6%. It’s a quiet but powerful shift, one that recognizes that helping women also means equipping and encouraging men to be the dads they were created to be.

Why does this matter? Because children benefit when fathers are present and engaged.

According to research compiled by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, children with involved fathers are more likely to do well in school, have healthy self-esteem, and avoid high-risk behaviors. Studies show that children with involved fathers are 43% more likely to earn A’s in school and 33% less likely to repeat a grade. Another study found that children with present fathers are significantly less likely to suffer from depression or engage in criminal activity.

Fatherhood matters — not just sentimentally, but statistically.

And yet the narrative of modern America too often casts men as optional or even unwelcome in conversations about parenting and family formation. If we want to change the outcomes for the next generation, we must change that mindset.

We need a culture that encourages men to step up — not step back.

That’s why many of us working in the pregnancy help movement have taken up the mantle of being a “dadvocate” — someone who sees the value in reaching men, even when they seem disinterested or discouraged. We believe that just as women deserve support and hope, so do the men who helped create a new life. Whether they choose to engage or not, we trust that something greater is at work: a call deep within them to be part of their children’s story.

In a world increasingly confused about manhood, fatherhood, and family, perhaps the best gift we can give this Father’s Day is a renewed recognition of the vital role dads play — and the encouragement they need to step into that role with confidence and purpose.

Let’s build a culture that welcomes fathers, equips them, and celebrates the irreplaceable part they play. For the sake of every child and every generation to come.

The 100-year question: My father's challenge that stands the test of time



My father, K.P. Yohannan, went to be with the Lord one year ago. I have remembered him every single day since then — wishing he was here and wishing we could continue some of the conversations we started.

As I've looked back, I've come to realize what a tremendous blessing it was for me to witness how he lived out his faith daily.

Loving our kids means making faith tangible and practical for them.

One of the most impactful things he modeled for me was how to live a life of integrity. He was the same person at home as he was in public. That consistency is rare, yet it's one of the most powerful ways a parent can love his children. Every day, my father lived out for my sister and me what it meant to genuinely follow God.

Growing up in our home, sharing the gospel wasn't just a job; it was a way of life.

I watched how, as he got older, his pursuit of God didn't fade — it deepened. His heart and passion for those who had not heard about Christ only strengthened. He didn't grow tired of the mission; he grew more consumed by it. And that passion wasn't just in the gifts he gave or the words he spoke — it was in the life he lived, day after day.

That genuine life is the greatest gift a father can give his children. It's something we can carry with us and then pass on to our own children, which they will then pass down to their children. Loving our kids means making faith tangible and practical for them. It means showing them what it looks like to live with a passion for those living and dying without Christ and a deep love for God.

That means in the everyday moments — in the car, over coffee, during our prayers — we live a simple, faithful life by loving God and loving others. In this way, our lives glorify God.

When I think about my father, as much as I miss him — as much as I wish he were still here sitting next to me — there's also a peace that carries me forward. The same God who was with him is with me. I now have the privilege of continuing this life of love that my father exemplified.

If there's one thing I wish people would remember about my father, it's this: He would often say to everyone he met, "Add 100 years to your life. where are you, and what matters in light of that reality?" It was his way of challenging us to invest our lives in eternal things, knowing that only what we do for Christ will last.

He would also urge us not to waste our time. He would tell us, "Don't give up so easily." Especially young people — he would plead with them not to wait to serve God. Simplify your life. Use your time. Use your resources. Pray. Give. Go. There's a world out there that still needs to hear about Christ.

And then he'd often ask the question: What are you now going to do about it?

I hope, by God's grace, to lead my own children in the same way my father led me. Not by being perfect; my father wasn't perfect. But by being able to genuinely say to my children, "Follow me as I follow Christ."

A year without my father has taught me how much he's still with me. His voice still echoes. His lessons still guide. GFA World, the ministry he founded, still moves forward.

With that in mind, I continue walking and asking myself, "What am I going to do about it?"

I want to respond to that question every day of my life. I pray that my own children, and all those impacted by my father's life, will do the same.

This is true fatherhood: My dad's final act defined love and manhood



Almost 17 years ago, the Washington Post reported that a father had drowned while saving his son’s life. That man’s name was Tom Vander Woude. He was my dad.

Every Father’s Day, I reflect on what I learned from his life and death.

'It is usually pretty easy to know what is right or wrong. We are usually the ones who make it more difficult.'

In many ways, he was an ordinary man. He was born on a farm and died on a farm. He loved watermelon and ice cream. At age 22, he married his high school sweetheart, and they raised seven sons together. I am the fifth. He flew for the Navy, coached basketball, and prayed every day. Dad selflessly served God, family, and country.

My youngest brother, Joseph, was born with Down syndrome. From the moment he entered the world, Joseph and Dad were inseparable. When Joseph was a toddler, the doctors told my parents that crawling, though difficult for him, would help Joseph’s physical and mental development. Dad made makeshift elbow pads for them both and got down on his hands and knees to spend hours with Joseph crawling around the house. As Joseph got older, he went everywhere with Dad — sitting on the bench while Dad coached, attending daily Mass, riding in the truck while listening to country music, and working on the family farm.

Then one fateful day in 2008, my dad taught me something I will never forget: True fatherhood requires sacrificial love.

That day, while working on our house, Dad noticed something wrong: The top of our septic tank had collapsed, and Joseph, who was 22 years old, was nowhere to be found. Dad rushed to the tank and found Joseph struggling to keep his head above the pool of sewage. Wasting no time, Dad dove into the muck and managed to get beneath Joseph.

But realizing he couldn’t save Joseph on his own, Dad told a nearby worker, “You pull and I’ll push,” took his last breath, and descended beneath my brother to lift him above the deadly fumes.

Shortly afterward, my mom watched helplessly as the first responders treated my brother and retrieved the lifeless body of my father, the love of her life. Remarkably, Joseph survived, and he assists my mother to this day in her golden years.

On that tragic day, I lost my role model and dad, but I learned a profound lesson about sacrifice. Habitual small acts of service prepare you for acts of heroism.

Dad often said, “It is usually pretty easy to know what is right or wrong. We are usually the ones who make it more difficult.”

For Dad, doing the right thing meant performing quiet acts of service and sacrifice for others. To save money for our college tuition, he would only buy older cars. When furloughed from the airlines, he worked as a laborer at a horse farm to pay the bills. When a family of 12 moved to the area, my dad offered for them to stay in our already-full farmhouse while they looked for a house; then he co-signed their mortgage. When the local Catholic parish was founded, my parents volunteered as sacristans and altar server coordinators.

Because of my dad’s courageous example of service and sacrifice, the local Catholic diocese is considering opening his cause for canonization.

The Catholic Church, through a lengthy and detailed process, can solemnly declare that individuals who lived a heroically virtuous life are saints with God in heaven. In 2017, Pope Francis added a new path to sainthood for those who lay down their lives out of love for others. If my dad’s life and death fit these criteria, his story may inspire fathers, husbands, and all people for years to come.

Dad’s untimely death was tragic. To this day, I miss his smile and guidance. I am grateful for the profound impact he had on me in his short life, not only as a man but as a father and a husband. His joy, his determination, his dedication to his family, his quiet strength, and his deep faith are just a few things that motivate me to be the best version of myself.

Every day, and especially on Father’s Day, I hope and pray that I can be like my dad.

Why a fatherless man bombed a fertility clinic — and the dark truth it exposes



On May 17, 2025, a 25-year-old named Guy Edward Bartkus detonated a bomb outside the American Reproductive Centers fertility clinic in Palm Springs, California. Four individuals in the blast periphery were injured, but since the clinic was closed, no staff were harmed. Thankfully, neither were any embryos. The only casualty was Guy Bartkus himself.

But he had already been a victim of a different kind of blast — the one that destroyed his family.

When a man doesn’t believe his own life matters, he’ll start to believe no life does.

Investigators quickly learned that Bartkus was an anti-natalist, an ideology that sees human existence as inherently painful and thus worth ending — both for the individual and others. That he chose an IVF clinic, where life is manufactured into existence, as his target aligns well with a pro-mortalist mindset.

KNBC-TV recently interviewed Guy’s father, who said he didn't recognize the man who committed the murderous act. The elder Bartkus talked about how his son used to protect the vulnerable.

“If bigger kids were picking on smaller kids, he would stand up for the smaller kid and make the big kid leave him alone,” he told NBC News.

Yet his son had turned from protecting the smallest to targeting them.

Guy's father continued, saying his son used to be a “good kid who liked hiking, mine hunting, rock hunting, his computer. He liked Xbox — kid things. ... Something changed in him.”

Something did indeed change. And while the father, who had not seen his son for 12 years, doesn't know what that could've been, statistics do: Boys who grow up without their dad are often dangerous — to themselves and to others.

The impact of father loss in boys is tragically predictable. Princeton’s Sara McLanahan found that children raised without both biological parents are significantly more likely to suffer from depression, drop out of school, and engage in violent crime. Fatherless boys, in particular, are more prone to substance abuse, aggression, and nihilism.

The Justice Department reports that over 70% of long-term prison inmates come from father-absent homes.

Sociologist Brad Wilcox has noted that boys who grew up without fathers are more likely to go to prison than graduate from college.

That's because, as sociologist David Popenoe explains, fathers play a unique and irreplaceable role in child development: “Fathers are far more than just ‘second adults’ in the home. Involved fathers bring positive benefits to their children that no other person is as likely to bring.”

One of those positive benefits is this: Boys are less inclined to hate themselves and express that hatred in ways that harm others.

We see this not just in run-of-the-mill crime statistics but also in mass shootings. Almost every major mass shooting or public school rampage was carried out by a young man who lacked a loving connection with his dad.

The details change, but the family structure does not.

Guy didn’t shoot up a school. He bombed a fertility clinic. But the impulse was the same: Destroy life because you no longer see its value. And when a man doesn’t believe his own life matters, he’ll start to believe no life does.

Would that have changed if his father was in his home every day through adulthood? There during puberty and high school, for his son’s first heartbreak, for his first brush with the dark corners of the internet? There as a living response to his questions about identity, worth, or purpose? There to talk through why, despite the pain, life is still worth living? The stats, and what we all instinctively know to be true, say yes.

Pro-mortalism may be a fringe belief, but it grows in the soil of despair — and despair grows in homes without fathers.

Guy's target, an IVF clinic, is disturbingly symbolic. These outlets may create life, but they often bring that life into a world intentionally void of one or both adults responsible for their existence. Babies born without their genetic parents. Starting life with the kind of deprivation that changed Guy from “good kid” to bomber.

This wasn’t just a tragedy. It was a warning.

Our culture is baffled by the kind of violence, numbness, and fatalism displayed in acts like this. But we shouldn’t be. We’ve spent decades hacking at the trunk of children's home life, devaluing fatherhood, and insisting that “love makes a family” — aka endorsing mother or father loss. Of course that tree is going to topple. When it does, it crushes innocents in the process.

A fatherless boy grew into a fatherless man. That man, filled with pain he could not name, lashed out at the very idea of life itself.

There will be more like Guy. Not just because of ideology, politics, or even mental illness — but because the place where he was made to receive love, identity, and protection was destroyed. And from that rubble, Guy built a bomb.

This isn’t just baseball — it’s a rebellion in cowhide



May 31, 1997. I was 9 years old and had just hit my first home run for Tampa Bay Little League. After the game, a parent handed me the ball, and I wrote the date on it. Today, that ball still rests on a shelf in my den — a small monument to childhood and a boyhood milestone.

Last week, my 7-year-old son earned the game ball after his own baseball game. He plays in the same league and on the same field where I hit that home run. Naturally, I placed his ball right next to mine.

After our last game, my fellow coaches and I said what we all knew to be true: We’re not just teaching a sport. We’re raising boys into men — through baseball.

As I set his ball on the shelf, I picked mine up. The handwriting made me laugh — so innocent, with a crossed-out word where I had misspelled something. Suddenly, the memories came rushing back: the smell of the concession stand, the taste of my glove laces from chewing them in the outfield, and the voice of that one dad in the bleachers who never liked an umpire.

Then, something else caught my attention. The two baseballs, separated by 32 years, looked exactly the same. Same color. Same stitching. Same weight. Indistinguishable.

For a few minutes, I just stood there, staring at the two baseballs. In that quiet moment, something struck me: In a world where nearly everything feels up for grabs — values, definitions, identities, expectations, even truth — a baseball almost feels like an act of rebellion.

In a culture obsessed with chasing the next big thing, those two identical balls offered a much-needed reminder: Not everything needs to be reinvented or improved. Some things are worth preserving.

If you’re familiar with my work, you know I take pride in celebrating the things that never go out of style — faith, family, and freedom. I cast shade on what’s trendy and shine a bright light on what’s true, good, and beautiful. When the world wobbles, these values steady the ground beneath us. They hold together not just our personal lives but the country itself.

And let’s be honest. The world feels very wobbly right now.

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Photo by Hunter Martin/Getty Images

Our institutions keep demanding that we reconsider basic truths: that men can become women, that state ideology trumps parental authority, that patriotism poses a threat, that faith offends, and that masculinity is somehow toxic.

Every tradition gets questioned. Every boundary, blurred. Every norm, up for debate.

And yet — there sits the baseball. Quiet. Unchanged. Still exactly where I left it.

That’s not an accident. It points to something deeper, something God has written into the human heart: a longing for the eternal. For stability. For order. For truth that doesn’t shift with the culture.

When I coach my son on the same diamond I played on as a boy, I don’t think about preparing him for the chaos of the world. My job is to anchor him in the things that aren’t chaotic. After our last game, my fellow coaches and I said what we all knew to be true: We’re not just teaching a sport. We’re raising boys into men — through baseball.

We’re teaching them that manhood isn’t a moving target. That marriage is a covenant, not a contract. That freedom comes with responsibility.

Tradition isn’t something to escape. It’s something to inherit, to steward, and to pass on. That’s what fatherhood demands. It’s what citizenship requires. It’s what faith commands.

Despite what modern culture preaches, tradition isn’t about control — it’s about continuity. It’s the through line that links generations, so we don’t get swept away by every cultural trend. Headlines change. They don’t define you.

You’re defined by how you love your family; how you serve your neighbors; how you show up when it’s inconvenient; how you choose courage when convenience would be easier; how you pray when no one’s watching; how you toss the ball around with your kid in the backyard.

The stitching on that baseball never changed; neither did the role of a father; neither did the moral clarity of the gospel; neither did the beauty of a shared meal or the dignity of honest work.

It’s time we return to those things.

In a culture obsessed with change, maybe the wiser path is to focus on what doesn’t. Maybe the real challenge isn’t keeping up with the world — it’s keeping faith with the people and principles that mattered before the world got so loud.

In 1776, North Carolina’s constitution echoed that truth. American founder George Mason wrote, “A frequent recurrence to fundamental principles is absolutely necessary to preserve the blessing of liberty.”

That baseball on the shelf hasn’t changed — neither have the things that matter most.

And I’m holding on tight.

No, Being Raised By A ‘Group Of Pals’ Isn’t Better Than Having A Mom And Dad

One doesn't need a randomized, double-blind, placebo-controlled study to know that children need a mother and a father, not an artificial womb and a group of drinking buddies.