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Rule #25: There Is Evil in the World

This blog exists to share “life’s rules” with my children—lessons I’ve learned the hard way—so that they can chart their paths with fewer wrong turns and avoid some of life’s biggest potholes.

But every now and then, the world delivers a shock so jarring that it’s hard to make sense of. Events like the mass killings in Paris and San Bernardino leave me asking: what lesson can I pass on to protect my children?

After much thought, I’ve reached a hard conclusion:
they must understand that Evil exists in the world—and learn to deal with it on their own terms.

When my kids were growing up, I taught them to respect differences, to see more than one approach to a problem. I raised them to value tolerance, understanding, and compromise. I truly believed that discussion and love could solve almost any problem by appealing to the basic goodness in people. I hoped that by teaching kindness, they would experience kindness.

But I may have unintentionally taught them to be sitting ducks.

This worldview works in 99.9% of situations. It fails only when confronted by Evil.

Evil isn’t just someone doing something bad. Bad people usually know they’re doing wrong and feel guilt or shame—that’s what keeps most of us from crossing certain lines.

Evil is different. Evil is badness rationalized—made acceptable by an internal lie.
Sometimes the lie hides in politics. Sometimes in religion. Sometimes in something as bizarre as a “talking cat” urging violence. But it’s always the lie that fuels Evil and makes it grow. Without the lie, evil deeds would stand naked for what they are.

If a neighbor claimed his cat told him to kill you, I’d hope you’d do two things:

• First, protect yourself—avoid him, call the police, take defensive action.

• Second, don’t blame the cat.

But what if a crowd believed the cat was real and killing you was a good idea? Killing the cat wouldn’t solve the problem. There would always be other cats. The more people accept the lie, the more dangerous the Evil becomes. And as the group grows, violence can start to feel normal—even righteous.

So what do you do when confronted with Evil? Three things:

1. Recognize Evil for what it is.
   Don’t let people mask it. Media and commentators will try to reframe mass killings as workplace disputes, mental illness, or society’s failings. These distractions protect the lie. Evil is rarely subtle. Someone stockpiling weapons and building bombs wants one thing: to harm others. Don’t let anyone talk you out of naming it.

2. Protect yourself.
   Use avoidance, alert authorities, and take defensive action. I’m not telling you to buy a gun, but I am telling you to take whatever precautions you deem appropriate. Evil doesn’t stop on its own. You have to be prepared to defend yourself.

3. Expose the lie.
   Say out loud that the “cat” isn’t talking. Warn others. People often know deep down when something is wrong, but they need the courage of others to help them call it out. Lies cannot stand long in the open; truth is the only antidote to Evil.

Above all, remember:
never trust what a cat tells you—cats lie, and Evil thrives on lies.

Love, Dad

Rule #83: Be Thankful for Crying Babies on Planes

I was on a red-eye flight from San Diego to Chicago, heading home to Pennsylvania after a long couple of days of meetings. I was looking forward to a quiet ride in first class—stretch out, sip a nightcap, put on a movie, and drift off to sleep.

While waiting to board, I noticed a young woman traveling alone with a baby girl. My first thought? “Tough break for whoever sits next to her in coach.” I smugly assumed I had dodged that bullet.

But fate has a sense of humor. When I boarded, I watched in disbelief as the young woman with the baby slid into the seat right next to mine. My heart sank. So much for a quiet flight.

Then I saw it—the stares. The sideways glares from other passengers, the silent judgment cast on a mother simply trying to travel with her child. And in that moment, something shifted. This wasn’t a burden. This was a gift.

How often are we handed the chance to be kind? To protect someone vulnerable? To step outside ourselves and be the “good guy”? Right there, I decided that instead of being annoyed, I would embrace it. I told her I had six kids, that nothing she or her baby did would bother me, and I meant it. She exhaled with relief.

Each time the baby fussed, I stayed calm and offered help when I could. I noticed the video screen light was keeping her awake, so I shut mine off. My role, for those four and a half hours, was to make that journey a little less stressful for that mother and child. And strangely enough, it didn’t feel like a sacrifice. It felt like purpose.

Here’s what I realized: life gives us countless chances to be assholes, but far fewer to be champions. Most of the time, I miss mine—too rushed, too self-absorbed, too distracted. But crying babies can’t be ignored. They demand our attention. They wake up instincts we’ve buried.

And the beauty is, babies can’t thank us. They won’t remember a thing. Which is exactly the point. Helping isn’t about the thanks we get—it’s about who we become. Their cries remind us that kindness defines us, not them.

Yes, it’s easy to show patience with a baby. But the real challenge—and the real growth—comes in extending that same grace to coworkers, neighbors, or even strangers who rub us the wrong way. Those are the moments that shape us most.

So the next time you hear a baby crying on a plane, don’t sigh or roll your eyes. Be grateful. That baby may just be giving you the gift of purpose.

Look for the crying babies—and thank them.

Love, Dad

Rule #16: Rachel’s Rule

“Jeder nach seinen Fähigkeiten, jedem nach seinen Bedürfnissen.” – Karl Marx
“From each according to their ability, to each according to their need.”

I have a confession: I’m a communist.

At least at home I am. When it comes to raising kids, I have little patience for making sure everyone gets the exact same slice of the pie. Instead, I focus on what each child can contribute and what each child needs. In our family, the fairness of the system comes from the fact that the “central government” (Bobbi and I) concern ourselves with what’s best for the whole family—not with tallying who got what yesterday.

Once, when I worried about being “fair” to Eevee, afraid another sibling might be getting spoiled at his expense, I asked her about it. Her response? “Face it, Dad—we’re all spoiled.” Wise words, and true.

The truth is, our family doesn’t live in a world of scarce resources. Everyone gets more than they need. What changes are the circumstances—sometimes one child needs more attention, more help, or more support than another. It’s not about who gets enough, but about how the surplus is distributed.

Still, every now and then my capitalist heart bleeds (green, of course), and I worry about fairness. Effort doesn’t always equal reward, and sometimes that disconnect nags at me.

Case in point: yesterday the boys, with far too much free time, pointed out—using word count analysis—that Rachel has been mentioned in this blog far less than her siblings. The average number of mentions per child was fifteen. Rachel? Three. That stung. Had the central government failed her?

Here’s the thing about Rachel: she’s one of the “easy” ones. Homework done. Room clean. Handles obstacles with quiet dignity. While her her older siblings take pride in teasing and tormenting her, she manages them with the skill of a lion tamer. Whether it’s a sharp comeback or a well-placed left uppercut, Rachel can handle herself. She keeps them all in line.

But the problem with being consistently responsible, positive, and successful is that sometimes you fade into the background. The loud ones, the needy ones, the troublemakers—they draw the attention. The steady ones risk being overlooked.

That’s not just true in families. It’s true in life. Some of the most remarkable people we know are the ones we barely notice, simply because they do their jobs so well. In business, it’s the quiet professionals who keep everything running smoothly. Ironically, because things work, they rarely get the recognition they deserve.

So here’s Rachel’s Rule: Find the people who are quietly doing things right—and make sure you recognize them. They make life easier for all of us, and they deserve to be seen and heard.

I’m not ready to abandon my central-government-style parenting just yet. But remembering Rachel’s Rule helps keep me balanced. Whether you’re the “fork in the socket” type or not, the lesson is the same: honor the steady ones, the strong ones, the ones who make life better simply by doing what they do.

And Matthew—don’t worry. I haven’t given up my Rand Paul, ultra-capitalist leanings. I just admit that every once in a while, a little bit of communism isn’t such a bad idea.

Love, Dad

Rule #84: There Are Always Boulders

Every parent has that “wise” speech we give our kids. It usually goes something like this:

“If you follow your passions and use the gifts God gave you, you’ll find happiness. If you work at something you love, it won’t feel like work.”

Sounds good. Inspiring even. Unfortunately—it’s complete nonsense.

Every path worth taking is full of obstacles. Big ones. Boulders that block the trail. There are no smooth, straight roads, and certainly none without work. Kids grow up believing passion will carry them straight to Emerald City, skipping along with munchkins. Then they meet witches, flying monkeys, and a path that suddenly feels uphill. And they think: Wait, this isn’t what I signed up for.

I see it all the time. The cello is fun until the hours of practice kick in. Basketball is great until the alarm goes off at 6 a.m. Science is fascinating until that first failed bio exam. Everything kids love eventually gets hard—and when it does, many want to quit.

The real challenge for parents isn’t clearing the boulders for them. It’s helping them decide what to do when the path gets tough. Here’s the process I’ve found helpful:

Step 1: Healthy or Unhealthy
Not every boulder is just a test of grit. Some are warnings.

Football is a good example. Concussions, torn ACLs, broken bones—sometimes the right move isn’t “rub some dirt on it,” it’s walk away. I’ve failed here myself. When Collin broke his collarbone, I told him to stop being a baby and get back in. Not my finest moment.

This is tough for parents of kids who are almost good enough—because when they hit a physical limit, it isn’t just their dream that ends, it’s ours too. But sometimes the healthiest choice really is to head back to munchkin-land and pick a different road.

Step 2: Teach Climbing Skills
More often, kids hit a boulder and just don’t know how to get over it.

When they say, “Track isn’t fun anymore,” parents feel two things: relief that Saturday mornings are free again, and disappointment after all the time and money invested. Before we jump in, we have to listen. Is this a true change of heart—or just the first taste of hard?

That’s when we teach them climbing skills. Pacing themselves. Breaking big goals into smaller steps. Learning to hike around the obstacle—maybe dropping travel sports but keeping the joy of the game. The point isn’t to move the boulders; it’s to show kids how to navigate them.

Step 3: Do Nothing
This one shocked me. A business partner once said, “We can always do nothing and let the problem play out.” As a Type A, that felt impossible. But he was right.

Parenting works the same way. Sometimes the best role is lifeguard: sitting close, not in the water, not blowing the whistle at every wave. Quitting a sport or getting a regrettable tattoo (at 21, Collin—please note the age) might be dumb decisions, but they’re not fatal ones. Kids need room to stumble and learn.

So how much does it matter if your child drops football, cheerleading, or cello? With time, you’ll see how little it shapes their life. What matters is not what they do, but how they live—and whether they know they’re loved and heard.

Because boulders will always be there. We can’t move them. But we can listen, guide, and remind our kids that the power to keep walking—or to change direction—has always been theirs. And once they believe that, every road is possible.

Love, Dad

Rule 52: Write Letters

I watch my kids and realize that the way they communicate with one another has become a world of sound bites. Text, instagram, and twitter have become the preferred forms of communication with telephone calls being used for only the most serious of issues.   It feels like if you can’t communicate it 140 characters the feeling isn’t worth having.

I urge you to re-discover another form of communication, a letter. Some of the most interesting things I have learned about life have come from reading the letters of others.

Any true romantic has to read the letters between Elizabeth Barret Browning and Robert Browning, they defined the art of the love letter..

“And now listen to me in turn.
You have touched me more profoundly than I thought even you could have touched me – my heart was full when you
came here today. Henceforward I am yours for everything”

Love Letter from Elizabeth Barrett to Robert Browning
(10 January 1846)

Now that’s communication that will last, and defines you far more than the text…” u r hot” does. The letter helps you stop, and think about your feelings and find the words that capture the moment- it requires both effort and caring. Just the joy of of opening a hand addressed envelope, and anticipation of reading someone’s thoughts is wonderful to feel.

We named Abigail after Abigail Adams because of her letters to John. If you have never read them I encourage you to, she was a remarkable woman who lived in extraordinary times yet found time to express deep love for her husband.

“My Dearest Friend,

…should I draw you the picture of my Heart, it would be what I hope you still would Love; tho it contained nothing new; the early possession you obtained there; and the absolute power you have ever maintained over it; leaves not the smallest space unoccupied. I look back to the early days of our acquaintance; and Friendship, as to the days of Love and Innocence; and with an indescribable pleasure I have seen near a score of years roll over our Heads, with an affection heightened and improved by time — nor have the dreary years of absence in the smallest degree effaced from my mind the Image of the dear untitled man to whom I gave my Heart…”

That lady knew how to turn a phrase. I’m sure John was knocked off his heels when he read that letter. I also found it so cool that although John addressed his letters with things like “Dear Adorable” she always used “My dearest friend”, which I find amazingly romantic and sweet. Even after all the years since she wrote them they allow the reader to instantly feel the emotion at the time it was first written, and first read. It lasts.

I started thinking about letters today because of the anniversary of my Mom’s passing 15 years ago. And one of the things, among many others, that I regret is that I never took the time to write her a letter.  Oh. I’m sure I gave her cards with short notes in them, but I never took the time to sit down and really write her a letter of my thoughts about her, and how she impacted my world. So today I started to write a long overdue letter to her and intend to address it to myself, mail it and keep it sealed. ( you can open it after I’m not longer here… so in about 60 years)

I decided not to share that letter because letters are not like blog postings. Letters are extremely inmate. They express emotions is a raw way that the shotgun blasts of the internet would do an injustice to the words. I think they need to be private, and shared in the same format they were intending- one on one- a personal experience.

Also my Mom was not a very tech savvy person, and even with divine intervention she would be challenged to open the blog. And I’m sure Dad would not be much help as he struggles to find channel 8 on the cable TV of heaven.

She’s was a pen and paper type of person and I think I need to honor her as such and stay with that format.  But as a teaser to that future reading of the letter I do use Abigail’s opening of “my dearest friend”.

With Mother’s day approaching I can think of no kinder way of expressing your love and gratitude to a Mom than a thoughtful letter. Try to do it while they are still here, trust me it is a lot easier to write it then.

I do miss you my dearest friend.

Love, Dad

Rule #27a – D is for Done

A couple of my kids have been struggling with personal as well as academic trials. It hasn’t been an easy couple of months, and in times like this, I miss talking to my Dad for perspective. My Dad led a remarkable life. Although he wasn’t much for fatherly talks—neither Donna nor I got many of those—he usually had a story or two for a situation. And on some rare occasions, the stories were actually true. I miss those stories.

I encourage you to re-read the eulogy delivered by Pastor Andreas Wagner of St. Peter’s Lutheran Church in North Wales (Rule 27). Over the past year, I’ve returned to it many times and found comfort in Pastor Wagner’s discussion of “grace.” His words gave me perspective on my life and my Dad’s.

The grace of God is, at the same time, the most complicated and simplest thing to understand. My Dad had the grace of God, though I don’t think he really understood it—he was just too damn busy.

I watch my son Stephen earn over 190 credits in Math and Physics with a 3.4 GPA and struggle with the last two courses, feeling overwhelmed. I watch my son Andrew work two jobs (along with Ashleigh), push so hard for a new home, and plan a wedding through enormous effort. All things I am proud of them for accomplishing… but I wonder: did I ever truly teach them about God’s grace?

The simple truth is this: although your achievements are great, the love I have for you is unconditional—as is the love from God. In my effort to encourage strong, hard-working kids, perhaps I forgot to teach that embracing God’s grace is the end goal—not reaching the finish line. My example of building businesses and working hard may have given the impression that life’s goals should be measured by accomplishments.

For perspective: I failed Biology in my freshman year at Penn State. At the time, it felt like the end of the world. I thought I would have to become a ditch digger for the rest of my life and live in poverty. That failure defined me because I let it define me. I didn’t understand what depression was back then (remember, this was years before Dr. Phil), but I believe that’s what I was going through.

Looking back over the past 36 years, I realize God had a plan for me—and that plan included that F. I was being led somewhere, and the lesson learned from that failure taught me more about life than any C ever did. Sure, it felt awful while it was happening, but I didn’t fully understand that all of it—the A’s and F’s, the failures and successes, the money earned and lost—meant very little. What mattered was the love of God and the comfort of knowing I was living my life in His plan.

I miss my Dad and Mom every day. This week marks the 15th anniversary of my Mom’s passing. As I reflect on their lives, I know they loved me, and they were loved by God. Everything else they did—or didn’t do—mattered about as much as that F in Biology. Trust me: everyone reading this should be grateful I was never encouraged to pursue a medical field—that F saved lives.

What makes a difference isn’t money or grades. What makes a difference is the love we show each other and the grace of God.

I know you kids question the existence of God, and I know this talk of unconditional love may sound strange from a man who set high expectations for each of you. But if you understand this one thing—that I am proud of you because of how you live your lives, not because of what you accomplish—that is enough. The rest will make sense later, with or without belief in an Almighty.

So, as you work on your next final or wait on another table to save money, stop for a moment and recognize who loves you. Embrace that grace. It isn’t the grade from some college professor that defines us—it is the grace shown in my love for you and the love from God. And with certainty, I can tell you: you are both worthy of that grace and blessed with it.

Love, Dad

Rule #34: Be Present

We live in a world where we rarely experience anything while it’s happening. Through the miracles of technology, we can multitask virtually every moment of our lives. With iPhones, iPads, netbooks, and notebooks, we can be in two places at once—at least mentally. We no longer have to choose between answering office emails and watching our daughter’s soccer game. We can do both!

When I was a kid, there was no such technology. I still remember getting our first color television when I was nine and the distraction it created in our lives. Suddenly, we could sit as a family and watch TV, interacting first with what was on the screen and only second with the people in the room. Watching Hogan’s Heroes in color might not sound cool today, but to a nine-year-old in 1969, it was very cool.

I’m not saying my generation was any better. We embraced every new gadget with as much passion as today’s iPhone releases. Technology is seductive. Cool is sexy. I’ll admit I’ve googled the new Apple Watch a dozen times and stopped just short of pressing the “buy” button.

The problem isn’t technology. The problem is focus.

Technology is addictive, and it’s easy to fall into its trap. I’ve had to stop and think about the few things in my life that really demand my full attention.

For me, riding a motorcycle does that. It requires complete concentration. You can’t text and drive (though I’m sure some idiot has tried), eat a quarter pounder, or argue with your kids. The act of riding is almost hypnotic in its intensity. One… two… three… you’re focusing on the experience to the exclusion of all else—or you die.

We all need to find those hypnotic moments in our lives—moments when we’re fully engaged in what we’re doing and who we’re with. Rarely does someone literally say, “One… two… three… deeper and deeper… focus only on me.” But wouldn’t it be wonderful to be present like that—to stop worrying about what’s happening somewhere else and simply experience that moment with one person, completely?

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized that my best memories come from being fully absorbed in the moment. When Abby came home the other day after making the school talent show (go Abby!) I took her upstairs, turned off the TV, put down the iPad, and asked her to tell me the whole story. I was entranced. Her tone, her expressions, her word choices, her joy—everything. I wasn’t reading a Facebook post; I was experiencing Abby. In that moment, she was the hypnotist and I was her willing subject. It was wonderful.

Social media and texting have tricked us into thinking we can “check off” interactions without really engaging. But my 12?year?old hypnotist, Abby, has taught me otherwise. There is something richer out there—something worth our full attention.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not burning my iPad or iPhone. They’re fixtures of my life, and I’m far too addicted to give them up completely. But I’ve learned to recognize the opportunity to be “hypnotized” by real moments—entranced by the absolute attention I give to another person.

One… two… three… melting, melting… snap!

Love, Dad

Rule # 53: Slot Machines and Parking Meters

George Carlin once said, “Here’s all you have to know about men and women: women are crazy, men are stupid. And the main reason women are crazy is that men are stupid.” As usual, he made it funny, but like most of his jokes, there’s a lot of truth behind it.

Lately I’ve been finding myself explaining the nature of men and women to my kids. As they get into relationships, they’re amazed at how difficult the waters are to navigate. I get a lot of “why did this happen?” or “what just happened?” questions. Relationships are complex, and I don’t claim to have all the answers—I just know how to survive.

The reason Carlin’s line works is simple: men don’t always “get it.” Half the time in conversations with women, I don’t even know what it is.

It’s not that men are truly stupid—we just don’t always know what we’re talking about. For us, things are what they are. Yes, we feel emotions, but we’re often oblivious to the hidden meanings behind words.

When men talk, we stick to concrete things: sports, movies, beer. I can say, “The Buckeyes suck,” and that’s all I mean. I’m not secretly insulting my buddy’s intelligence or questioning his life choices; I just think the Buckeyes suck.

When women have the same conversation, the questions multiply: how I said it, the tone I used, what I really meant. To a man, that sounds exhausting. To a woman, we must look stupid for not considering all those angles.

Here’s the truth: men are basically parking meters. Put in a quarter, get 20 minutes. Always the same. No surprises. Women are slot machines. Same quarter, but sometimes nothing, sometimes a small win, and sometimes a jackpot. The unpredictability keeps us feeding the machine, hoping for the big payoff.

Over time, that unpredictability makes men less confident. We become the “stupid” Carlin talked about. My wife Bobbi often points this out. If a friend calls her to stop for a drink on the way home, she just decides: yes or no. She’ll call or email me, and she knows she’ll get the parking meter response—“no problem.”

Meanwhile, my male friends almost always have to “check with the social director.” My wife hates that. “Can’t you guys make a decision on your own?” she asks.

Short answer: no, we can’t. Not because we’re incapable, but because we never know what the slot machine will give back. Sometimes it’s “sure, no problem.” Sometimes it’s “are you kidding, we have parent-teacher conferences.” Sometimes it’s “why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to go?” You just never know.

That’s why men look confused. From our perspective, slot machines are crazy. They can do almost anything.

So when my kids talk about relationships, I remind them: if he came home tired, it’s not deep—he’s just tired. If he didn’t call, it’s not a secret message—he just didn’t think you had more to talk about after three hours together at school.

And when explaining women to men, I usually say: “Don’t expect a payout every time. It’s a slot machine, not an ATM.” The variety of outcomes is part of the gift. Embrace it—it’s why we play in the first place.

The real pain comes when we expect parking meters to give jackpots, or slot machines to pay out every time. Life doesn’t work that way. The house always wins. Once you accept that, everything gets easier.

Too much of life is spent trying to make men act like women and women act like men. That only makes men look more stupid and women more crazy. Accept the differences, embrace them, and enjoy the game.

Oh, and the Buckeyes still suck.

Rule #51: Some Things Are Worth Dying For

In our family, you carry a powerful legacy. One great-grandfather was a machine gunner in World War II. Another was a prisoner of the Japanese in the Philippines and survived the Bataan Death March. These were men who sacrificed the full measure of their youth and risked everything for the freedoms we enjoy today.

Their principles mattered. They cared deeply about the liberties and values of this country—and were willing to die to protect them. Because of their courage, I never had to take up arms to defend our country. Because of them, I have lived my entire life without fearing for my life or my freedom simply for believing something different than someone else. My freedoms came cheaply because my parents and grandparents paid so dearly.

Today, millions of men and women still risk their lives to preserve our freedom, most of their actions going unnoticed because they do their jobs so well. Yet because their sacrifices feel distant, we’ve come to take freedom for granted.

Just this week, without a shot being fired, we gave up pieces of what they fought for. The movie The Interview was pulled from theaters because a foreign government threatened violence. Instead of fighting for our rights, we caved. No outrage, no resistance—just surrender. The freedom Bobbi’s grandfather suffered four years in a prison camp to defend was handed over without a word.

Two days later, our President traded spies for a prisoner and announced that Cuba’s brutal dictatorship—a regime that has killed thousands and suppressed virtually every human right—would remain as it is. We would simply accept them… evil, but with good cigars and beautiful beaches. He gave up the fight because it was too hard and the temptations too good.

I worry you’re hearing the message that freedom and values don’t matter. That if protecting them becomes too costly or takes too long, it’s better just to give them up. That safety matters more than principle. Who cares if we lose a movie, or smoke cigars that pay to keep innocents in prison?

Kids, it does matter. Your grandfathers and great-grandfathers taught us that some things are worth the cost—no matter how great or painful.

This isn’t just about one president. He is a reflection of our desires and fears, doing what he thinks we want—giving up when the fight gets hard. He couldn’t do these things if we didn’t allow it. This is not his problem; it is ours.

That’s the rule: some things are worth dying for. You need to know what those things are and be prepared to defend them.

Sometimes it does matter.

Love, Dad