I call this my “Impact List.” At 61, I could be thinking mostly about retirement. I will be 62 in December, and I imagine some people my age are already filling out their Social Security paperwork. But every week at 6:45 a.m., I sit down for breakfast with 28 high school young men—and I am still very much in it.
To be clear, I do not do this alone; I lead alongside another man a few years younger than I am. And this is not primarily a list of the impact we are having on them. It is a list of the impact they are having on me.
They remind me that life is still in front of us. They live with anticipation: football, soccer, golf, senior year, dances, decisions, and all that is still to come. At my age, it is easy to live more from memory than expectancy. These boys remind me that God is not finished with my future either. I want to live for what is ahead, not merely talk about what is behind.
They teach me to stay curious. They are asking, “Who am I?” “What am I good at?” “Does God care about me?” and “What kind of man will I become?” They also ask, without fail, “What’s for breakfast next week?” Their questions make me want to keep asking my own: What is God teaching me now? Who am I still becoming? What might He do in me in 2027?
They expose what is real. Teenagers have an excellent performance meter. They can smell a fake. Titles, résumés, and polished answers do not impress them for long. They respond to honesty, consistency, humor—and, most of all, someone who genuinely cares.
They prove that presence has power. They will forget much of what we talked about last year. But they will remember that we showed up at their games, learned their stories, noticed when they were missing, and stepped into their world. They keep teaching me that faithfulness matters more than expertise.
They have restored my sense of fun. They laugh loudly, compete fiercely, exaggerate shamelessly, eat an astonishing amount of food, and bring life into the room. They remind me that joy is not immaturity. Sometimes joy is simply the courage to be fully alive.
They give me the best seat in the house to watch becoming. My fellow leader and I are watching boys become men—growing in confidence, being tested in character, and beginning to own a faith that is truly theirs. What a privilege to witness that holy work, week by week and month by month.
They teach me to listen before I speak. At 61, I have accumulated plenty of answers. But these young men remind me that wisdom is not only knowing what to say; it is knowing when to ask another question. They do not need me to be the center of the conversation. They need a place where their lives can be.
They reveal the world they are actually facing. Social media. Anxiety. Loneliness. Pornography. Performance. Identity. Comparison. The constant fear of not measuring up. Their world is far more complex than many adults realize. They keep me from speaking to the teenager I remember being and teach me to see the teenager sitting in front of me.
They remind me that encouragement can change a life. “I see something in you.” “I am proud of you.” “You handled that well.” “God can use your life.” A young man may live for years on a few sentences spoken by a trusted adult. I pray that, somewhere down the road, one of the sentences they carry is one we gave them.
They make me hopeful. Every week, when they walk through the door at 6:45 a.m., I see courage, loyalty, humor, tenderness, potential, and friendship. The world often talks about teenagers as problems to manage. I get to know them as lives to love. And because I know them, I have hope for our future.
They teach a master class in humility. I am humbled that they let me into their world. I am humbled when boys who barely golf still post a lower score than I do. And I am humbled when they misunderstand me, challenge me, or ignore what I thought was excellent advice. I keep discovering that I am not the hero of this story. I am simply blessed to be in it with them.
They show me that influence comes slowly. Trust is built one breakfast, one question, one game, one text, and one adventure at a time. The deepest ministry rarely looks dramatic in the moment. It is usually a collection of remarkably ordinary moments, faithfully woven together.
They force me to translate my faith. I cannot hide behind polished religious language. The gospel must be able to withstand the honest questions of a 17-year-old. The test is not simply whether I understand it. The question is: Can they see that it is true, and can they see it in me?
They remind me of the young man I once was. I once needed older men who would answer my questions, grab a burger, work through my insecurities, and help me make sense of life. Craig, Jeff, and Dave did that for me. I remember what their presence meant—and that memory keeps sending me back to the breakfast table.
They give me a reason to keep giving my life away. At this stage, the question is no longer only, “What can I accomplish?” It is increasingly, “What can I pass along?” These young men are part of my legacy. I am handing off a baton one breakfast at a time. They will not remember everything I said. But perhaps they will remember that I kept showing up—and one day, they may show up for someone else.
We are not merely having breakfast with 28 boys. We are sitting at tables where generations meet. I may bring perspective; they bring possibility. My fellow leader and I may offer roots; these young men offer new growth. We remind them that their lives matter—and they remind us that ours still do.
And in His kindness, God uses us both.
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