The Teachers I Still Remember

Last night I had a meeting with my pastors to discuss the upcoming year of Confirmation with our middle school youth.

I have been serving as a guide in the Confirmation ministry for the last twenty-seven years, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like it was time for both the programming around Confirmation—and my role within it—to evolve.

For years, Confirmation has largely followed a classroom model. The students sit around tables, listen to the pastors teach, read a few Bible verses, and answer questions together. As guides, we sit with the students, helping them stay engaged and encouraging discussion where we can.

As we talked about the upcoming year, one question kept coming up.

Is this really the best way to help someone learn?

We talked about how kids learn differently. Some thrive sitting quietly and listening. Others need movement, discussion, and interaction before something truly sticks. I don’t think that’s a new phenomenon. I think we’re simply becoming more aware that people process information in different ways.

After the meeting, I found Sir Ken Robinson’s TED Talk, Do Schools Kill Creativity? One of the ideas that has always stayed with me is that people don’t all learn the same way. If that’s true in school, it seems just as true in church, at home, on a baseball field, or anywhere else we’re trying to help someone grow.

I also came across an article from Safe Search Kids that explored why students often remember experiences more than lectures. It wasn’t really arguing that lectures are bad. Instead, it made the case that when people actively participate in what they’re learning, they’re far more likely to remember it. That felt like exactly the kind of environment we’re hoping to create this year.

As I listened, I found myself thinking back to my own years in school.

I don’t remember my favorite teachers because they had the best PowerPoint presentations or the most organized lesson plans.

I remember them because they were passionate.

They told stories.

They made us laugh.

They asked good questions.

They welcomed discussion.

Most importantly, they made us feel like we were part of what was being taught instead of simply being talked at.

Next year I’ll be transitioning into more of a teaching and administrative role within the Confirmation program, and we’ll begin easing into some of those responsibilities this year. As we discussed what that might look like, I found myself asking a different question.

If I’m going to teach… what kind of teacher do I want to be?

That question extends far beyond a Confirmation classroom.

Parenting isn’t just telling our kids what to do.

It’s helping them discover why it matters.

Marriage isn’t built on lectures.

It’s built on conversations.

Coaching baseball isn’t about giving speeches.

It’s about creating an environment where kids can learn while having fun.

Leadership isn’t about standing in front of people.

It’s about bringing people into the conversation.

And maybe writing isn’t all that different.

I’m not writing this blog because I have life figured out.

I’m writing it because I’m still figuring it out.

I didn’t go to school for philosophy.

I’m not a life coach.

I’m certainly not an expert on fatherhood.

I’m simply someone trying to build a better life while inviting other people into the conversation.

Every article I write is less of a lecture…

…and more of an invitation to sit beside me while I learn.

As I step into this new role in Confirmation, I hope I become the kind of teacher I still remember from my own childhood.

Not because I had all the answers.

But because I helped create an environment where questions were welcome.

Where stories made Scripture come alive.

Where students felt seen.

Where faith became something they experienced instead of something they memorized.

Because twenty years from now, they probably won’t remember every lesson.

They won’t remember every Bible verse we discussed.

But they just might remember how it felt to be invited into the conversation.

And sometimes…

That’s where the real learning begins.

Continue the Journey:

If today’s article resonated with you, you might also enjoy:

  • When Errands Turn Into an Adventure — Some of the most memorable experiences aren’t carefully planned. They’re created by the way we choose to approach ordinary moments.
  • Why Ordinary Days Matter More Than Big Moments — The moments we remember most often aren’t life’s biggest events, but the ordinary days that became unforgettable because of the people we shared them with.
  • Playing Catch — Some of life’s most meaningful lessons aren’t taught through instruction, but through shared experiences that quietly strengthen relationships.

Further Reading:

Sir Ken Robinson — Do Schools Kill Creativity? (TED Talk)
https://www.ted.com/talks/sir_ken_robinson_do_schools_kill_creativity

Safe Search Kids — Why Students Typically Remember Experiences Better Than Lectures

Don’t Let Your Storm Get Your Kids Wet

I was scrolling through social media the other night when I came across a quote that stopped me in my tracks:

“Don’t let your storm get your kids wet.”

I found that to be profound because it’s something I struggle with more often than I’d like to admit. After reading it, I sat with it for a while and decided that I needed to be more intentional about who I was showing up as in front of my boys.

Yesterday put that to the test.

I don’t talk about work much here because it’s not really relevant to what I’m trying to build, but yesterday was a frustrating day. Without going into detail, I just felt like I was destined for something more, and that feeling weighed on me heavily as the day went on. I ended up leaving work late and getting to Brooks’s karate class just in time.

He did great.

He has been practicing all week, and it showed. He was more confident, more focused, and had clearly improved.

But with where I was mentally, I found myself focusing on the things he could still be doing better instead of celebrating how far he’d already come.

On the drive home, I started talking about those things before I caught myself.

I was letting my storm get him wet.

I made the conscious decision to stop and instead praise the improvement, because that’s what he needed to hear.

When doing research for this post, I came across an article from Lead You First about praising effort instead of innate ability. It argued that recognizing persistence, improvement, and hard work encourages people to keep growing rather than fearing mistakes. That is what Brooks needed from me in that moment. He didn’t need another list of things to do better just because that what I had chosen to focus on. He needed to know that the work he’d already put in mattered. It reminded me of something I wrote in The Belt Isn’t Earned on Test Day. Progress isn’t measured by perfection—it’s measured by growth.

After dinner, my mind immediately shifted back to everything that still needed to be done. I was behind on my work for this project. I had skipped my daily reading during my breaks because of how frustrated I’d been at work. I hadn’t taken enough steps. The dishes still needed to be done. The trash cans needed to go out. I still had to get ready for tomorrow.

I could feel the storm clouds gathering.

The boys were in the living room, so I walked out and sat on the couch. Brooks climbed up beside me. I could tell he wasn’t there to cuddle.

He was there to create chaos.

And in that moment I had a decision to make.

Do I brush him off and leave him standing out in the rain, letting him get soaked too?

Or do I open an umbrella and keep us both dry for a little while?

For the next thirty minutes we wrestled across the couch as he tried to escape through fits of breathless laughter. Joseph eventually joined the fray until Jillian whisked him away for his bath.

The work was still waiting for me.

But so were my boys.

That moment reminded me of A Life, Not a Collection of Parts. Spending time with my boys wasn’t taking me away from the project—it was part of the life this project is supposed to help me build.

Later that evening, after the kids were in bed and the chores around the house were finished, I sat down to work on things here and came back to that quote.

“Don’t let your storm get your kids wet.”

My kids shouldn’t become collateral damage because I had a rough day.

That’s not fair to them.

I’m not saying that as dads—or moms—we should bottle up our emotions, because that isn’t healthy either. Our children should know that adults have hard days. They should see that it’s okay to be honest about how we’re feeling.

In doing some further reading I found an article from ReachLink about what it calls “dad rage.” One point that stood out to me was that anger is often a secondary emotion, masking things like stress, exhaustion, disappointment, or feeling overwhelmed. That resonated with me because, if I’m honest, the frustration I carry home usually isn’t about my kids at all. It’s about everything that happened before I walked through the front door. Recognizing that doesn’t excuse my reactions, but it does help me understand them—and gives me the opportunity to respond differently.

Our emotional responses to things outside our homes aren’t burdens our children should have to carry.

If I’m being honest, this isn’t something I’m naturally good at.

I wear frustration on my face.

When I’ve had a bad day, people can usually tell.

Whether it’s stress from work, my back hurting, frustration while coaching, or simply running out of patience as a dad, my storms have a way of becoming everyone else’s weather.

And that’s something I want to change.

We all have storms in our lives.

The question is…

Who are we allowing to get soaked by them?

It also made me think back to There Is Always One More Thing. The work is always waiting. The responsibilities never disappear. But that’s exactly why we have to be intentional about the people standing in front of us instead of carrying the weight of everything still left to do.

My boys are going to grow up, and one day they’ll understand just how difficult life can be. They’ll experience disappointment, stress, heartbreak, and frustration for themselves.

I want them to know it’s okay to be emotional.

I want them to know it’s okay to be honest.

I want them to know it’s okay to cry, to struggle, and to have hard days.

But I also want them to know that we can choose how much of those storms we allow to fall on the people we love.

I know I’ll get frustrated again.

I know there will be more difficult days.

That’s life.

But I hope I become better at recognizing the storm clouds over my own head and opening the umbrella before the rain reaches my boys.

Because my bad day doesn’t have to become theirs.

And maybe one day, when they’re fathers themselves, they’ll remember not that I never had difficult days, but that I tried my best not to let those days define our time together. In many ways, that’s the same lesson I hoped to pass along in Little Eyes Are Always Watching—our children are learning from far more than the words we say.

Continue the Journey:

Further Reading:

Lead You First — “How to Praise Your Kids and Team to Increase Effort, Persistence and Motivation”

https://leadyoufirst.com/how-to-praise-your-kids-and-team-to-increase-effort-persistence-and-motivation/

ReachLink — “Dad Rage: Understanding and Managing Anger as a Father”

https://www.reachlink.com/advice/anger/dad-rage/