I was driving down Billy Graham Parkway recently—on the way to take my son back to school near Charlotte. It’s a road named after one of the most influential Christian leaders of our time. A man whose legacy spans decades, nations, generations. A man who, for a long time, represented the kind of impact I thought I was supposed to have.And maybe I wasn’t alone. Maybe you’ve felt it too—that quiet pressure to “do something big,” to “leave your mark,” to be remembered. I used to dream of that. Not in a fame-hungry, spotlight-chasing kind of way, but in a soul-deep desire to matter. To do something meaningful enough that someone might name a road after me one day.
John Kral Drive. Sounds nice, right? But something’s changed in me. Maybe it’s the way my throat tightens a little every time I hug my son goodbye for another semester. Maybe it’s just getting older, getting softer, getting real. As I drove that road named after a giant of the faith, something in me whispered:
What if the real goal was never the road?
What if the legacy isn’t built on how many people remember your name… but on how your kids speak it when you’re gone? I used to want to change the world. Now, I just want my kids to know how deeply, wildly, endlessly I love them. I want them to tell their grandkids about me someday—not with reverence, but with warmth. With belly laughs and misty eyes. With stories about bedtime talks, Saturday pancakes, goofy dad jokes, and the way I always cried at the end of movies. I want them to remember that I showed up. That I was proud of them. That I apologized when I got it wrong. That I made space for their hearts. We don’t talk about that kind of greatness enough. We celebrate the ones who build empires and movements—but I've learned that greatness needs some refining in my life.
Maybe the greatest impact we can make isn’t on stages or in books or behind microphones. Maybe it’s around kitchen tables. In hospital waiting rooms. On sidelines. In text messages and forehead kisses. Maybe the goal isn’t to have a street named after you. Maybe it’s to raise kids who know they are loved so securely, so consistently, that they carry that love into the next generation and the next. That’s what I want now. And honestly? I think it’s truly greatness refined. There won’t be a John Kral Drive. That’s okay. Because maybe—just maybe—there will be a few generations of Kral kids and grandkids who live a little freer, love a little deeper, and stand a little taller because I showed up. Because I chose presence over platform. Love over legacy. Faithfulness over fame. And maybe that’s what true greatness really looks like.
There may never be a John Kral Drive… but that image up there? That’s a reminder. A little signpost to what matters most. Maybe love is the legacy. And maybe showing up is the most world-changing thing of all.