Naomi’s Soundtrack

Dear church,

I don’t remember everything from when I was a kid. A lot of the details have faded. There are a few things that I can’t remember, no matter how hard I try: the combination to my junior high or high school lockers. I can’t remember hardly any of my Junior High teachers. I can’t remember my high school graduation ceremony at all.

Yet there are a few things I absolutely can remember. I remember every one of my elementary school teachers at Roosevelt Elementary School from K through 5th Grade (Mrs. Perez, Mrs. Gonzalez, Mrs. Meeks, Mr. Groves, and Mrs. Stern). I remember watching the Lakers play basketball on KCAL9 with Chick Hearn and Stu Lantz on the call. I remember the news anchors on the local Channel 4 news.

There’s one other thing that I can remember with great clarity: the sound of prayer and worship in our home.

Every night, before dinner, my family would gather for family devotions. It was more than a rhythm. After homework was done and Dad got home from work, we’d all sit down together. We’d sing hymns and praise songs—just our voices filling the living room. Sometimes with a tambourine or a bongo drum (I like to think I have a little bit of rhythm). Many times off-key, sometimes tired, but always together. Then we’d read Scripture, and my Dad would explain what we read and how it applied to our lives. Then we would take turns praying. That was the pattern. Worship, the Word, and prayer—and then dinner. Every night besides Sunday (on Sundays, we were at church, so we were basically doing the same things, just with a lot more people). No matter how ordinary the day was, those moments grounded us.

Even earlier in the day, most days before any of us were even awake, my dad would be in the kitchen, on his knees, praying, with his Bible next to him. I can still picture it—him kneeling by the counter in the dim morning light, whispering prayers for each of us by name. He’d pray for our family, for our church, for people in need, for the ministry in India. That wasn’t a one-time thing or a short season—it was every morning. And then again at night, he and my mom would pray together before going to bed. Quiet, faithful prayers. Day in and day out.

My sister recently received her PhD in Education (my sister is an absolute ROCKSTAR!), and Libby, Naomi, and I were able to be there with many friends and family to celebrate. We went out to eat after the ceremony, and my sister said a few words before our food was served. She mentioned how she had dedicated her dissertation to our parents. She began to recount how many times our parents had prayed for her (and all of us kids growing up).

That really got me thinking. They prayed for me (and four of us kids) at least three times a day—once in the morning, once during family devotions, and once before bed. And like my sister, I got curious, so I did the math, too! From the day I was born to my 45th birthday this year, that adds up to over 49,000 out-loud prayers spoken by my parents over my life.

That’s not an exaggeration. That’s consistency. That’s legacy.

And now, I’m a dad.

Our sweet daughter Naomi just turned one. She's our miracle baby, and like any parent, I have dreams and hopes for her. But here’s the truth: there’s a lot I can’t control. I can’t guarantee she’ll never face hardship or heartbreak. I can’t protect her from every pain. I can’t promise she’ll always feel understood or confident or strong.

But there is something I can do. I can choose the soundtrack of her childhood.

Of all the things she could hear in our home—complaining, arguing, stress, ungratefulness, negativity—I want her to hear something better. I want her to hear prayer and worship. I want her to hear me and Libby lifting her name to God. I want her to hear us praying for each other, for our church, for our friends and family, for the world. I want her to hear us singing—real worship, not polished performances, but our everyday voices singing to Jesus.

Because what we hear the most becomes what we remember.
It becomes the soundtrack of our soul. 

Scripture gives us this vision for spiritual parenting:

“And you must commit yourselves wholeheartedly to these commands that I am giving you today. Repeat them again and again to your children. Talk about them when you are at home and when you are on the road, when you are going to bed and when you are getting up.” —Deuteronomy 6:6–7 (NLT)

God isn’t asking us to be perfect parents. He’s inviting us to be faithful, just showing up, again and again. Talking about Him in the rhythms of real life: when we're at the dinner table, when we’re buckling our kids into car seats, when we’re saying goodnight, when we’re pouring our first cup of coffee.

And on those days when the world feels overwhelming—or we feel overwhelmed as parents—this Scripture should serve as our anchor:

“Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank Him for all He has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand.”—Philippians 4:6–7 (NLT)

We won’t always get it right. But we can always pray.

So, Libby and I are trying to make prayer and worship the normal background noise of our home. Nothing fancy. Just little moments of praise in the chaos. Prayers in the car. A worship song while we clean. A blessing whispered at bedtime.

“Always be joyful. Never stop praying. Be thankful in all circumstances, for this is God’s will for you who belong to Christ Jesus.”—1 Thessalonians 5:16–18 (NLT)

You might feel like you didn’t grow up with that. Maybe your home was loud with other things—arguments, silence, criticism, chaos. Maybe prayer and worship feel unfamiliar or awkward. That’s okay. You’re not behind. You get to start something new. You get to change the soundtrack in your home, starting today.

It doesn’t take a perfect voice or a polished prayer. It just takes showing up. Kneeling in the kitchen. Singing at the table. Whispering a prayer over your child as they sleep. Turning off the noise of the world for a few moments and tuning your heart to heaven.

I’m convinced—years from now, what will shape Naomi the most won’t be what she watched on screens or what we posted online. It’ll be what she heard day after day: the prayers of her mom and dad, the sound of our voices praising Jesus in the quiet and the chaos.

I pray that when she’s grown, and her own memories start to blur, she’ll still remember that soundtrack. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll choose to pass it on.

Happy Father’s Day weekend, all.

I love you.

Blessings,

Naomi’s Dad