Rooted in Service

May 19, 2026

I’m sitting here in Mystic, Connecticut, on the eve of Gabriel’s graduation from the U.S. Coast Guard Academy. Family has begun gathering, filling the house with conversation, laughter, and the kind of energy that comes with major life moments. Tomorrow, we will watch our Cadet become an Ensign. I’ll write more about that later this week.

This morning, though, is quiet.

I’m sitting with a warm cup of coffee in my hands, watching Tonks sprint across the backyard with her nose buried in the grass, completely fascinated by every new smell she can find. The morning air is cool, peaceful, still, and full of pollen. As I sit here, my mind keeps drifting back to the last time I was in Mystic.

January 5, 2025. Three days before my cancer diagnosis. Three days before my kidneys started to fail.

At the time, I had no idea how much life was about to change. Looking back now, that trip feels like a photograph taken moments before a storm rolled in. The sky looked the same. The roads were familiar. Everything felt ordinary. Except I was in pain, from what I thought was a kidney stone.

Gabriel and I had made that trip after the OA Lodge Banquet, where he received a Servant Leadership Award for his hard work, dedication, and quiet commitment to Scouting and the Lodge. I remember watching him walk across the room with a mixture of pride and gratitude that is difficult to describe. Not simply pride in an accomplishment, but pride in the kind of young man he was becoming.

What stood out most to me was that none of what Gabriel did was ever about recognition. He never chased applause or attention. He simply showed up, worked hard, helped where needed, and carried himself with humility. Those are the kinds of people who quietly hold organizations together. The ones willing to stay late, do the difficult jobs, and make sacrifices without asking what they will get in return.

Awards eventually get packed away in boxes or hang on walls collecting dust. Character does not. Service does not. Selflessness does not.

On the drive up to Connecticut, Gabriel and I had one of those conversations that only seem to happen during long road trips. Miles of highway stretched ahead while winter trees blurred past the windows. Coffee sat in the cup holders as life unfolded somewhere between exits.

We talked about what it means to live a life of selfless sacrifice. A life rooted in honor. A life where serving others matters more than serving yourself. We talked about responsibility, leadership, and the reality that the right path is often the harder one.

What struck me during that conversation was that, even at a young age, Gabriel already understood something many adults never fully grasp. Service is not about recognition. It is not about titles, patches, awards, beads, or praise. It is about willingly carrying burdens for others simply because it is the right thing to do.

He gets it. Deeply.

He has committed himself to that kind of life.

As a parent, there are moments when you realize your children are no longer simply listening to your words. They are becoming the values you hoped to teach them. That realization hit me somewhere along that drive.

I see that same spirit in my other sons, Ethan and Noah, in several of my fraternity brothers, close friends, fellow Scout leaders, and in many of the youth I have had the privilege to serve over the years.

Men and women who quietly choose service over comfort. Who give their time, energy, and hearts to others expecting little in return. The kind of people who continue showing up long after the applause fades and the recognition disappears. The ones who stay behind to clean up after everyone else has gone home. The ones who carry burdens silently and step forward to help simply because someone needs helping.

What makes them stand apart is that their service is genuine. It is woven into who they are, not something they put on when others are watching.

I still believe deeply in noble intent. I believe most people begin their journey wanting to do good, to serve something greater than themselves, and to leave the world a little better than they found it.

But life has also taught me that not everyone who speaks the language of service is truly motivated by it.

There are people who wear the appearance of service like a uniform or a mask. They know the language. They know how to stand in the right rooms, say the right things, and position themselves where they can be seen. Sometimes they even convince themselves that what they are doing is noble. But eventually the difference becomes clear.

True service costs something.

It requires trust in others, humility, sacrifice, patience, and genuine love for people. A mask can imitate those things for a while, but it cannot sustain them when service becomes inconvenient, painful, or unseen.

Real service is steady. It does not disappear when the spotlight fades. It does not become transactional. It does not weaponize kindness, loyalty, or sacrifice when things no longer go their way.

Over time, I have learned to recognize the difference between those who serve because they love people and those who serve because they love what service gives them.

The people I admire most are the ones whose souls are rooted in service. Not because it benefits them. Not because it elevates their status. But because they genuinely believe other people matter. You can feel the difference in how they lead, how they treat others, and how they carry themselves when nobody is paying attention.

They remind me that goodness still exists in this world in powerful ways, even if it rarely makes headlines.

Looking back now, knowing what was waiting for me only three days later, that trip carries even more meaning. Before the unknown. Before the fear. Before hospitals, scans, and treatments became part of daily life, I had one final ordinary road trip with one of my sons.

A ride filled with laughter, reflection, and conversations about honor, sacrifice, and purpose.

I did not know then how much I would need those lessons in the months ahead. I certainly did not know how much those moments would still be teaching me today.