Letter to My Sons

I grew up in a small town in North Alabama, surrounded by a world that felt well-defined, its beliefs and expectations woven into the fabric of everyday life. But I was born questioning all of it. Absolutes never really seemed like absolutes until they were tested. And I’ve always believed that truth is never afraid of questions.

One of the biggest influences in my upbringing was the idea of God. His presence wasn’t just acknowledged—it was assumed, embedded in every aspect of life. Revival preachers blazed through the South, calling people to repentance, convincing them of their sinfulness, and offering hope through professing Jesus as Lord and being baptized. Many responded, though few truly understood what that commitment meant.

The Bible Belt is an interesting place to be raised. Almost everyone claims to be a Christian, yet so many don’t know what that even means. Faith often becomes more of a cultural identity than a personal conviction. It’s inherited, not discovered. It’s something you are, not necessarily something you believe. I know this because, for most of my younger years, I was no different. I knew the right answers, spoke the right words, and played the part well. But deep down, I wasn’t sure if my faith was truly my own or just the natural result of my environment.

And in many ways, I’m still trying to figure it out.

But here’s what I do know: I believe in God. I believe in Christ and His finished work for us. I believe that His sacrifice atones for my sins and is being applied to my life every day. Not because I fully understand it, but because I’ve seen too much, experienced too much, and failed too much to believe otherwise.

However, what I’ve learned in my 40 years is that real, tangible examples of Christ’s goodness can be hard to find in those who claim His name. And I’m not just pointing fingers—I’ve been part of the problem too.

For years, I expected more from Christians than they were ever capable of giving. I thought that if someone truly knew Christ, their life would reflect it in a way that was unmistakable. But the reality is that people, even the most devout, are messy, broken, and inconsistent. They will disappoint you. They will fail you. And you will do the same to others.

If there’s one thing I can tell you, it’s this: Let God be His own example. Don’t let the failures of people disappoint you in Him. If you do this, you’ll be amazed at the goodness you see in the world, in the people you meet.

It’s like watching a baby take their first steps. You’ve seen thousands of people walk before, but when that child stumbles forward, it still fills you with joy. Why? Because you hadn’t expected it. You’re surprised by the beauty of something so simple.

Now imagine that same child at five years old, still unable to walk. The joy is replaced by concern. Disappointment settles in—not because they can’t walk, but because by now, you expected them to.

So much of our disappointment—especially with faith—is rooted in misplaced expectations. We expect people to be perfect, to live up to the name they claim. We expect churches to never wound us, pastors to never fail us, and fellow believers to always be a reflection of Christ. But people will fail. Even the best of them.

God, however, does not.

I don’t want you to build your faith on people, not even on me. Because I will fail you, too. I will let you down, say the wrong things, and make mistakes that hurt you. But if your faith is in Christ and not in the goodness of those who follow Him, then no amount of human failure will shake you.

I’ve spent much of my life trying to reconcile my belief in God with my disappointment in people. And what I’ve come to realize is that grace is for them too. The same grace that covers my sins covers theirs. The same mercy I hope for is the mercy I must extend.

So, my sons, hold fast to Him. Trust in His goodness, not the fleeting perfection of men. And when you look for Him, don’t be surprised when He meets you in the most unexpected places.

Because He will. Every time.