I’ve been thinking a lot lately about time. Not in a panic-stricken way—just a sober, quiet awareness. Weddings tend to do that. Watching young couples say yes to forever, while parents and grandparents watch from the sidelines… it stirs something. A sense that life is moving. That seasons are shifting. That some of us are just stepping onto the track, while others are rounding the final turn.
I saw my mom dancing with my niece at the wedding—her little hands gripped tightly in my mom’s as they spun in wild, joyful circles. My niece was laughing loud, jumping up and down with that carefree, unburdened energy only kids have. And my mom—strong, smiling, radiant—matched her rhythm with grace. It was loud and sweet. Tender and unfiltered. Youth and age in one spinning whirl of a song. And it hit me: this is legacy. Not someday, but right now. Not just in the big speeches or the milestones—but in the unrepeatable moments we’re tempted to overlook. In the moments that pass too quickly to frame. And I thought about how easy it is to miss them—because we’re busy, or distracted, or just trying to hold it all together. But those moments matter. They are the story.
And if we’re not careful, we’ll spend our lives trying to lead from a place of control, instead of covering the people we love with intentional, sacrificial presence. We’ll try to manage outcomes instead of stewarding hearts.
So today, I want to talk about what it means to lead well. As a man. As a son. As a hopeful future husband and father. I want to talk about biblical headship—not as dominance, but as surrender. About legacy—not as perfection, but as presence. And about family—not just the one we’re born into, but the one we choose to build, love, and protect.
This isn’t about having all the answers. It’s about asking the right questions before time runs out.
There’s a phrase that’s been echoing in my spirit lately—simple, but weighty:
Headship means going first in sacrifice. Submission means going first in trust.
That’s the blueprint. That’s what God intended marriage—and all godly leadership—to reflect. Not control, not dominance, not hierarchy for the sake of ego. But Christ. The One who gave up status and comfort and came not to be served, but to serve. The One who laid down His life when we were still getting everything wrong.
Paul lays it out in Ephesians 5. He starts with this: “Submit to one another out of reverence for Christ” (v. 21). That line frames the entire passage. Mutual submission. Mutual honor. Mutual laying down. This isn’t a one-way power structure. It’s a gospel-shaped dance of grace and humility.
From there, Paul speaks directly to husbands and wives. And it’s easy to get caught on the line that says “Wives, submit to your husbands” (v. 22). But we forget what follows: “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her” (v. 25). That’s not a call to rule—it’s a call to die.
The Greek word used for “submit” is hupotassō—a voluntary act. Not something forced. It’s about trust, not inferiority. It’s about supporting one another in God’s design, not disappearing into someone else’s shadow. And the word for “head” isn’t about dominance—it’s about being a source of life-giving leadership. Like Christ is to the Church.
So husbands, let’s be real: headship doesn’t mean you always get it right. It means you are responsible before God for how you lead, how you listen, how you love. A husband who models Christ must lead with a willingness to die—to ego, comfort, and control.
And wives—your submission isn’t to perfection. It’s to God’s design. Even when your husband falls short (and he will), your trust in God shines through your posture. That kind of strength is anything but weak. It’s courageous. It’s Christlike.
Headship, biblically, is not about demanding authority—it’s about embodying responsibility. Philippians 2 shows us how Christ led:
“Though He was in the form of God, He did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied Himself… taking the form of a servant” (vv. 6–7).
That’s the posture. That’s the model.
Leadership in God’s kingdom always looks like laying something down.
We’re all running our race—but not everyone is on the same lap. Some are just finding their stride. Others are quietly approaching the finish line. And if you slow down long enough, you start to see the sacred space where those laps overlap.
That’s what I felt at the wedding. Watching young couples like Joey and Sierra, or Connor and Chloe, say yes to new beginnings—stepping into adulthood, into marriage, into responsibility and legacy. And then looking around the room at people I love—people who’ve been quietly running their race for decades—people who carry the kind of love that isn’t loud anymore, but deep. That contrast didn’t feel like tension. It felt like testimony.
I still think of the dance my mother and niece shared. My niece was all energy—grabbing her grandma’s hands, bouncing up and down, spinning wildly in circles. Laughing loud, like only a child can. And my mom—nearly seventy, still strong, still smiling—matched her pace with joy. That moment wasn’t small. It was everything. The beginning and the nearing-end. Innocence and wisdom. Joy and gravity. All in a whirl of music and movement. That wasn’t just a dance.
That was legacy in motion.
Scripture says, “Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom” (Psalm 90:12). That doesn’t mean we’re meant to dwell on death—it means we’re meant to value life rightly. Numbering our days isn’t about fear—it’s about perspective. About waking up to the fact that time is short, yes—but also deeply meaningful. It’s not a call to panic. It’s a call to presence. To wisdom, not worry. To intentional love, not rushed obligation.
And legacy—real legacy—isn’t about what you leave after you’re gone. It’s about what you plant while you’re here.
“I am reminded of your sincere faith, a faith that dwelt first in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice…” (2 Timothy 1:5). Paul didn’t just commend Timothy. He honored the generations behind him—the ones who sowed truth in quiet ways before anyone saw the fruit.
That’s what I see in people like my mom. Like my Uncle Mike and Aunt Pam. Like others who may not even realize the impact they’re making. I see quiet strength. Chosen joy. Love that shows up in casseroles and carpools and late-night prayers no one hears but God.
The final laps don’t always look like decline. Sometimes they look like presence over performance. Sometimes they look like a grandmother spinning on a dance floor with her grandchild. Or a dad tearing up as his grown son says vows. Or opening his home for a family celebration, not knowing how many more moments like that he’ll get. Sometimes they look like sitting in the front row at a wedding. Or choosing joy in the middle of chemo. Or showing up—again—because love says it’s worth it.
To honor legacy is not to mourn what might be lost—it’s to bless what already is, and to steward what’s still to come.
The ones who raised us may not run forever—but while they do, may they know they are seen.
And maybe that’s the point.
We don’t know how many days we have left.
But we do know this:
Today is one of them.
And maybe that’s enough—to love deeper, lead well, and live like it matters.
Family is beautiful—but it’s also messy.
It’s late-night phone calls and long seasons of silence. It’s holiday smiles that hide unresolved tension. It’s forgiveness that’s still in process. It’s love that sometimes hurts.
Some of us carry pain that sits just beneath the surface—a father wound, a prodigal sibling, a child we don’t know how to reach anymore. Some carry guilt for what we could’ve done differently, or grief for the way things used to be. And some walk into family spaces already braced for impact, hoping for peace but preparing for pain.
I think of my friend who wants so deeply to reconcile with his brother—but every attempt is met with old wounds, sharp words, and closed doors. He’s not bitter. He’s heartbroken.
I think of my own relationship with my dad. It wasn’t always easy. There were stretches of silence, years we couldn’t quite reach each other. But his passing brought me closer to God. And while the journey wasn’t perfect, I loved him. I still love him. I trust Jesus with his soul. And I trust Jesus with the story He’s telling through it all.
That’s what gives me peace:
God doesn’t need perfect families to do perfect work.
Romans 8:28 says God uses all things. Not just the clean things. Not just the polished ones. But the broken things. The regretted things. The things you’d rather not talk about.
Genesis 50:20 echoes this truth—Joseph says to his brothers, “You meant evil against me, but God meant it for good.” That’s not just an Old Testament story. That’s a promise we can cling to when reconciliation seems impossible, when the phone doesn’t ring, when the healing hasn’t come yet.
Even from the beginning, the fall fractured families—and we’ve been feeling the ripple effects ever since. In Genesis 3:16, God says to Eve, “Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you.” That word “desire” in Hebrew suggests conflict, a grasping, a tension in the relationship. It wasn’t God’s design—it was a consequence of sin. A distortion of what was once unified.
But Jesus came to redeem that. Not reinforce it.
Throughout Scripture, we see broken families:
- Cain killed his brother.
- Jacob and Esau warred from the womb.
- Joseph’s brothers sold him into slavery.
- David’s son tried to take his throne.
And still, God worked. Still, God redeemed. Still, God fulfilled His purposes.
In a letter I wrote to a family member recently, I said, “Our role is to walk with them, not over them.” That’s the posture of grace. It doesn’t mean we ignore truth or stay silent when boundaries are needed. But it means we show up differently. Humbly. Open-handed. Willing to love even when it’s hard. Willing to believe God still moves in the middle of the mess.
Because He does.
So if your family isn’t perfect—good. Neither is mine. Neither were any of the families in Scripture. But God’s not waiting on perfection. He’s asking for participation. He’s asking us to trust Him with the mess and to keep walking in grace and truth—even when it hurts.
Headship isn’t about being right. It’s about being responsible.
It’s not about having the final say—it’s about being the first to serve. The first to repent. The first to stand in the gap when things go wrong and offer your own heart as a covering.
That’s what Christ modeled for us. “Husbands, love your wives, just as Christ loved the church and gave himself up for her…” (Ephesians 5:25). He didn’t assert dominance—He laid down His life. His leadership wasn’t loud—it was low. He nourished, He cleansed, He lifted.
To be a man under God’s design is to cover those entrusted to you. Not to control them. To build shelter, not pressure. To be a steady roof in life’s storms, not a ceiling that stifles.
I’ve seen that kind of headship firsthand in my life.
I saw it in my Uncle Mike—how he leads not just with structure, but with steadiness. How he opens his arms, his heart, and his home.
I saw it in Connor and Joey—young men stepping into manhood with a posture of humility and quiet strength.
And I saw it in Rodney—how he stepped in when no one else did. He gave a young man in our family something he’d never had before: direction. Not control. Not force. But a hand on the shoulder, a call to grow, a model to follow. It’s up to that young man now. But Rodney did what men are called to do—he covered, he led, and he let go.
It’s important to name this rightly: biblical headship, as taught in Scripture, is a specific calling to husbands—to lead their families with Christlike sacrifice, humility, and love (Eph 5:23–25).
But the spirit of covering—of protecting, nurturing, and guiding with strength and tenderness—can reflect Christ in anyone. Women like my Aunt Pam, who nurtures through cancer without bitterness, who keeps choosing love, day after day. And especially in my mother, who carries her family with fierce grace and gentle wisdom. They have modeled this faithful presence beautifully. While not headship in the technical sense, their faithfulness carries the aroma of Christ’s leadership. And that matters too.
And I saw it in a new kind of family. Two young men, proud new additions to our family, who didn’t get dealt the easiest beginning. But love found them. Chosen love. Adopted love. A love that reflects the Father’s heart—“God sets the lonely in families…” (Psalm 68:6). That’s not just poetry. That’s kingdom culture. That’s what happens when spiritual headship says, You belong here. I’ve got you. You’re safe.
Biblical headship isn’t loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It creates it. It holds the door open, not just for a wife, but for anyone God has placed under your covering—biological or chosen, present or prodigal.
And let’s not miss this: 1 Peter 3:7 commands husbands to honor their wives as co-heirs of grace. Not subordinates. Not sidekicks. Co-heirs. Equal in worth, different in role. It’s not hierarchy—it’s harmony.
Headship isn’t control. It’s covering.
And a good covering never crushes—it protects.
There’s a strange stretch of life where you start to realize—you’re no longer just someone’s kid. You’re someone’s legacy in motion. And maybe… someone else’s covering, too.
You’re not at the start line anymore. But you’re not near the finish either.
You’re in the middle.
And this is where most people get stuck—caught between honoring the past and stepping into purpose. Unsure how to lead without overreaching, love without enabling, or let go without feeling like we’ve failed.
The place where you’re watching your heroes run their final laps, while stepping into your own. Where you’re still being formed—but people are watching you now, too. Listening to you. Needing you to show up.
So what do we do here?
We honor those who’ve gone before us—and we steward what’s been placed in our hands.
We don’t try to control what we can’t. We listen well. We love steadily. We show up even when it’s awkward. We forgive even when it’s messy.
Paul says it beautifully to Timothy—a young man stepping into leadership, carrying the weight of a generational legacy:
“I am reminded of your sincere faith, which first lived in your grandmother Lois and in your mother Eunice… For this reason I remind you to fan into flame the gift of God…”
(2 Timothy 1:5–6)
It’s a rhythm of legacy and leadership. Of receiving and releasing. Of learning how to hold sacred both the voices that shaped us and the ones still forming behind us.
Ecclesiastes 3 reminds us—there is a season for everything. For speaking and staying silent. For stepping forward and stepping back. For holding tight and letting go.
Sometimes love looks like protection.
Other times, it looks like permission.
Romans 12:18 reminds us, “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone.” That won’t always mean agreement. But it will always mean intentionality. The hard work of listening, releasing, and bearing each other’s burdens when we can (Galatians 6:2).
This season—the one in the middle—calls for a different kind of strength. Not the loud kind. Not the controlling kind. But the quiet strength of people becoming who they were created to be—even if no one notices but God.
Maybe your family doesn’t look like mine.
Maybe your story includes divorce, estrangement, or years of silence. Maybe you were the one who walked away—or the one left behind. Maybe your family is fractured, distant, or already gone. Maybe the people who should’ve led you didn’t. Maybe you’ve been left to figure it out on your own—wondering what “legacy” even means when all you’ve known is loss. You’re not disqualified from love or legacy. The gospel is full of grafted-in stories. And God’s family is big enough for yours.
Understand this: God still writes stories through broken lines.
You don’t need to earn your place in a family rooted in love.
You don’t need to prove yourself to belong in a story God is still redeeming.
“God sets the lonely in families.”
—Psalm 68:6
That verse is more than poetry. It’s a promise.
A promise for the foster child, the orphaned soul, the spiritual wanderer. A promise for the young man who’s never been told what it means to lead, and the young woman who’s never been shown what it means to be covered in love.
God does not waste pain. He does not overlook the overlooked.
Even James—the brother of Jesus—said it plainly:
“Pure religion is this: to care for orphans and widows…”
(James 1:27)
If no one taught you how to run your race—you’re still not disqualified.
If no one ever walked with you—that doesn’t mean you’re meant to walk alone.
Legacy doesn’t begin with perfection. It begins with presence.
It begins with choosing love, even when you’ve never seen it modeled.
It begins with walking forward, even with trembling steps, toward the family God is building—the one He’s placing you in, and the one He may be calling you to help lead someday.
Headship is like a dance.
Not domination—but connection.
Not rigid control—but a rhythm of trust.
One leads, the other follows—but both move together.
It’s not always elegant. Sometimes we step on each other’s toes. Sometimes the music feels off. But when love is the melody, grace becomes the beat we move to.
This is the legacy we’re invited to leave: not one of perfection, but of presence. Of showing up with open hands and a willing heart. Of choosing to cover when it would be easier to control. Of choosing to stay when it would be easier to shut down.
Because without love, all leadership is meaningless (1 Corinthians 13).
Without love, headship is hollow.
Without love, legacy ends with us.
But love—true love—never ends.
“A new commandment I give you,” Jesus said, “that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this, all people will know that you are my disciples…”
(John 13:34–35)
That’s the mark. That’s the melody.
But legacy isn’t just about what we leave behind.
It’s about what Jesus gave for us—so we could begin again.
He saw our brokenness—and didn’t look away.
He stepped into time, into pain, into a world fractured by sin.
And instead of staying distant, He came close.
Jesus lived the life we couldn’t.
Died the death we deserved.
And rose again to give us new life—now and forever.
This is the heartbeat of headship.
This is the covering every heart longs for.
Not religion. Not rules.
But a Savior who says: You’re mine. You belong. Let me lead you home.
And the good news? Even if your family has fractured. Even if your leadership has faltered. Even if your dance has stumbled—
“Behold, I am making all things new.”
(Revelation 21:5)
That’s God’s heart for your story. For your family. For your legacy.
If this stirred something in you—don’t carry it alone.
Reach out. Wrestle with it. Cry if you need to. Pray with someone you trust.
And above all else… keep choosing love.
Because love is the dance.
And legacy moves in step.
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