January 2012

date:

tahiti

Location:

Today, for some reason, is different. In the third month of vacation in a place I love deeply, as I sit here under the Tahiti sun, surfing beautiful waves, diving for conch, living what I used to think was a perfect life, I find a yearning in my soul.

And in this moment, standing still long enough to notice, that I understand something honestly and without excuses: no matter how beautiful my life is, I am not fulfilled.

Not because I lack experiences.
Not because I lack opportunity.

But for two clear reasons.

First, I had not carried life forward through children—through the daily responsibility of shaping, protecting, teaching, and loving the next generation.

Second, and just as important, I had not fully taken on my responsibility to community, to family beyond myself, and to humanity as a whole—to leave things better than I found them.

That realization changed everything.

Fulfillment does not come from beauty and fun alone. It comes from responsibility. Scripture has always pointed us here: to whom much is given, much is required. A meaningful life asks something of us. It calls us out of comfort and into care.

I speak not as someone above others, but as one among them. Like a mother with the spirit of humility and peace. We need dialogue—real listening—it has the power to heal.

Future generations will measure us by what we built, protected, and passed on. Every road, every home, every school, every family represents years of effort and unseen sacrifice. That kind of work doesn’t disappear. It lives on in people.

Children will be the ones who wake us up. Their honesty. Their joy. Their untrained sense of justice. They remind us what actually matters. 

Creation gives us abundance—but never for selfish use. It is meant to be stewarded and shared. This is the message I wish leaders would hear: never plan for the future without remembering the moral values that anchor humanity—work with dignity, family with commitment, faith with humility, and respect for conscience, even when belief differs.

We are not owners of the world. We are caretakers of a legac.y. 
Though cultures differ and customs vary, our shared humanity is stronger than our differences. Diversity is not a threat; it is how life renews itself. Fear gives birth to destruction, but love—when chosen deliberately—builds what lasts.

The world has never been more connected. Never have we had a greater chance to practice compassion across distance and difference. There is one earth, one human family. If we truly lived as though that were true, the future would not feel so far away.

And so, beautiful soul, in the quiet moments—when noise fades and truth rises—I dedicate these thoughts to you. Keep hope alive,make it not naive but a disciplined trust. Without it, we shrink. With it, we stretch toward something better.

Humanity does suffer a kind of soul-weariness, and often the young feel it first. That is why listening matters. Healing begins when someone is heard. Dialogue is not weakness—it is medicine.

When we help carry another person’s burden, we are lifted too. This is how brotherhood becomes real, not theoretical. This is how the future is repaired—one family, one community, one act of responsibility at a time.

We are meant to belong to one another. To pass the torch carefully. To add our part, then step back so others may add theirs.

And to any young reader growing up inside this story—curious, thoughtful, learning how to build both things and character—your presence already matters. Your kindness, discipline, and willingness to care are signs that God is shaping you not just for success, but for service. That is how the world is made better.