![]() One of the ways kids force legacy building upon us is through an endless series of curious and innocent questions, some of which really deserve an answer. Marriage changes your worldview-if it doesn’t, you’re probably not doing it right-but having kids injects your worldview with a serum requiring you to validate past and future beliefs, thoughts and actions. My most visual and disruptive education in legacy began with the birth of my son, Kieran, in early 2004, followed by his brother, Connor, 22 months later. Marriage vows taken as such, however, mean compromising on everything from toothpaste and parking, to where you live and so much more. Yes, we’re given glimpses of sacrificial living in our platonic relationships and even in dating, but in those arenas, our commitment is conditional. It wasn’t until after my accident that I even considered the notion of living for anything other than myself-even conceptually-but post-nuptials we are all put to the test. If you’ve taken or even considered this step, you probably already know what I’m about to tell you, but I’m sure we could all use the reminder that this thing called marriage simply doesn’t work unless you sacrifice part of yourself for another. ![]() Seven years later, life handed me my next big legacy lesson when I said “I do” to my beautiful wife, Andrea. I fought desperately against the notion that we are meant to create a legacy, but the seeds had been planted. I also wish I could report that immediately following my recovery, I “saw the light” and changed my ways, but the truth is I struggled with the implications of surviving the trauma, especially after learning the doctors estimated my probability of leaving this earth at over 90%. I realized that while it may have been “a good time,” my life amounted largely to an exercise in taking-relationally and materially-giving very little of myself to any person or cause. I wish I could say that towards the end of that four hour wait, I was able to come to peace with what appeared to be almost certain death, but I couldn’t. Broken and bleeding, trapped in the car for four hours before a truck driver spotted my mangled Plymouth Horizon in a ditch, I had the opportunity to do some thinking before getting air-lifted to Baltimore’s legendary University of Maryland Shock Trauma unit. In the summer of 1994, as an 18-year-old conforming every bit to the careless stereotype, I fell asleep behind the wheel at 2:00 am after a long day of lifeguarding and partying.
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