Somebody's Always Watching

The people around us are learning from more than our words.

“The other boys will take lessons from you one way or another. They will learn from you. We never know who is watching us and who is trying to pattern their lives after ours.”
— Grandma Pauline

When I read that part of Grandma Pauline’s letter, I didn’t just hear her voice. I heard wisdom echoing across generations.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in parenting, teaching, coaching, and just plain living, it’s this: somebody’s always watching, even when you think no one notices and even when you are alone.

As a kid, I didn’t understand what “setting an example” really meant. I just knew my little brothers followed me around like I was the second coming of Superman (sometimes), minus the cape and with significantly worse decision-making.

If I rode my bike down a hill too fast, they did too. If I jumped off the porch, they jumped farther. If I said something sarcastic, they repeated it louder.

Whether I liked it or not, I was their blueprint.

And looking back, it’s honestly amazing any of us survived childhood with all our teeth intact.

We lived in an old farmhouse with ten-foot ceilings, which apparently translated in three boys’ minds to: “Perfect indoor sports arena.” We used to play kickball in our bedroom with a foam soccer ball like we were in the seventh game of the World Series.

My mama had lamps with glass chimneys on them, and let’s just say more than one of them died in the line of duty.

To her credit, Mama eventually developed a system.

If company was coming over, the glass lamp shades went back on. The rest of the time? She removed them preemptively like a woman living in a tornado zone.

That should tell you everything you need to know about our household.

We played games that, looking back now as a father, make me wonder if our guardian angels had mandatory overtime. But mixed in with all the laughter and chaos was a truth I didn’t understand until years later:

Little brothers are always learning from big brothers.

Unfortunately, they don’t just learn the good.

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One summer afternoon, we were playing baseball in Grandma and Paw Paw’s front yard. The four trees in the yard made the perfect diamond. The heat was thick enough to wear, and the sunlight angled through those trees just right.

Everything was fine until it wasn’t.

As brothers tend to do, we got into an argument. I don’t even remember what it was about now. Probably something deeply important to children and completely meaningless to adults.

Who was safe.
Who was out.
Who was being annoying.

Something like that.

But I remember exactly how I reacted.

I got mad.

And when my middle brother Sean took off toward the house, I threw an aluminum bat after him.

Let’s be clear: I didn’t toss it, and I didn’t throw it beside him. I launched it. I wanted to scare him.

But the second that bat left my hand and started spinning through the air like a helicopter rotor, I knew I had messed up. I just stood there and watched in slow motion as the bat got closer and closer to Sean.

It hit him square in the back. Sean flinched hard and yelled in pain before running toward the house.

And then the entire yard went quiet.

I just sat there thinking:

I messed up.

Grandma came outside fussing, and rightfully so. I tried to apologize, but honestly, how do you apologize for throwing an aluminum bat at somebody?

I knew it was wrong. I knew I had let my temper get ahead of my judgment.

And more than getting in trouble, I hated the realization that I had hurt somebody who looked up to me.

That moment never left me. Not because of the punishment.

Because of the weight of it.

People are watching. Especially the people who matter most.

Years later, I’ve realized that lesson never really goes away.

Now I have four kids of my own ranging from seven to sixteen, and trust me, they see everything.

The way I talk to their mama when I’m stressed.

The way I react when plans fall apart.

The way I handle frustrating emails.

The way I treat servers at restaurants.

The way I respond when I hit my hand with a hammer.

They’re always watching. And if I’m honest, sometimes they’re watching me get it wrong.

More than once, I’ve fussed at the wrong child for something I thought they did. Anybody with four kids under one roof knows that sometimes the facts get blurry in the heat of the moment.

Nothing humbles you quite like confidently delivering a lecture only to realize halfway through that you’ve accused the innocent one.

So I’ve had to learn to say something that doesn’t always come naturally to parents:

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

And strangely enough, I think those moments matter too. Because our kids don’t just learn from watching how we lead. They learn from watching how we repent.

Not that long ago, Karen asked me to help take down the greenhouse I built in our backyard a few years ago. The roof panels had started sagging, and the wood had faded into that grayish color old boards get after enough Tennessee summers.

I walked outside with my impact driver, already sweating before I ever got started.

Before I could remove the first screw, my oldest son came walking out the back door in socks with another drill in his hand.

“Where you want me to start?” he asked. He missed a few screws at first. I watched the bit skip and spin. So I stepped over and rested my hand lightly on his wrist.

“We feel for the screw and the bit to connect,” I told him. “Straight lines make the work easier. If you angle the drill, it’ll strip the screw. That’ll make things harder.”

He nodded and kept going.

There were no speeches or big life lessons, just the sound of drills whining and screws hitting the grass.

And standing there beside him, it hit me:

This is what Grandma was talking about.

Somebody’s always watching.

Not just in homes either.

Classrooms.
Churches.
Locker rooms.
Offices.
Ballfields. Again…ballfields.

Years ago, I taught sixth grade English.

Recently, I got a message from one of my former students.

He’s grown now. Married. Working as a welder. Preparing to go into ministry.

Part of what he wrote said this:

“You were set in my life as a living example of our Lord.”

And then this line:

“At the time I never even knew it.”

That message stopped me cold. Because most of the time, we have no idea who’s paying attention. We don’t know who’s watching how we respond under pressure. We don’t know who notices kindness.

Or patience.

Or consistency.

Or calm.

But somebody usually does.

Karen told me once that being married to me makes her feel safe.

Honestly, that may be the greatest compliment I’ve ever received.

To me, “safe” means she knows I’m going to protect this family emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

It means loyalty. Consistency. Calm during chaos.

I’ve always said people are either thermostats or thermometers.

You either control the environment or the environment controls you.

And as the husband and father, I believe it’s my responsibility before God to help set the tone in our home. Not perfectly, loudly, or arrogantly. Just steadily.

But I also know this:

I couldn’t do any of it without Karen.

Her support, encouragement, steadiness, and love make our home what it is.

We see marriages falling apart around us all the time now, and honestly, it just makes me want to work harder at mine.

Because somebody’s watching.

My boys are learning how to love their future wives.

My girls are learning what kind of man feels safe.

And all of them are learning what faith looks like when it’s lived out in ordinary moments.

If I’m being honest, I still struggle sometimes with wanting affirmation.

I work hard. Most people do.

And anybody who says they never want encouragement is probably lying.

But the older I get, the more I come back to that verse:

“Whatever you do, do it from the heart, as something done for the Lord and not for people.”

That changes things.

Because if we spend our whole lives chasing applause from people, we’ll always be exhausted. But if we live in a way that honors God, eventually everything else settles where it belongs.

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Last night, we were driving home from a baseball game in Nashville when a song came on the radio called “God I’m Just Grateful.”

Right before the chorus, my youngest son Grayson suddenly perked up and said:

“It sounds like they’re saying my name!”

Then he started singing loudly from the backseat:

“Grayson…I’m just grateful for you!”

And we absolutely lost it.

The kids were laughing. I was laughing.
I was wiping tears out of my eyes up front because I was laughing so hard.

It was one of those moments that probably won’t matter to the rest of the world.

But it mattered to us.

And honestly, those are the moments where legacy is usually built.

Not in giant speeches, perfect parenting, or big public moments, but in car rides, late-night talks, greenhouse tear-downs, baseball games, family laughter, and quiet apologies.

That’s where the real story gets told.

Because somebody’s always watching.

And if we’re doing it right, eventually somebody learns how to live well by watching how we love well.