Generational Foundations

Generational Foundations

One day, when my children tell their story, I hope they’ll say that their parents were dreamers — entrepreneurs with calloused hands and open hearts — who built something from nothing and showed them how to do the same.

I hope they see endless possibilities in what they can become, and that their passions find a place to bloom wide and free.

I carry deep gratitude for my refugee-immigrant parents, who survived the aftermath of the Secret War in Laos — a shadow war that unfolded alongside Vietnam’s.

They came to America with almost nothing but hope, navigating foreign laws, foreign tongues, and foreign hearts. They did their best to build a life for us amidst the ache of displacement and the beauty of new beginnings.

If not for the sponsors, programs, and open hands that helped them rise, none of us — then or now — would be standing where we are today.

Growing up, my father wrestled with addiction. My mother — steady, loyal, unyielding — stood beside him through it all. I remember prison visitations and phone calls. I remember running the neighborhood with my siblings and friends, coming home only to sleep, to eat, and to wash away the day.

It was chaotic, but it was our normal. Life was good because I didn’t know different.

I was wild and headstrong, surrounded by others just like me. Friendly. Popular. Crowned Prom Queen at Como High School.

Academics? Not so much. I wanted to be smart — or maybe I just wanted to win. I graduated with a 2.0 GPA, but in my mind, that was victory enough. I made it through.

Looking back, I see how many doors I missed — too busy getting high, skipping curfews, chasing weekends.

Then came Jim.

He entered my life during my senior year of high school, when I was still trying to figure out who I was and what I wanted. Jim became my mentor, my guide, my second father — a businessman with a steady faith and a patient heart.

Even then, he began planting seeds, nudging me to think about my future and to believe I was capable of more than I had ever imagined. He taught me about integrity, discipline, and the grace of second chances. He was firm when I rebelled, gentle when I broke. God used him to shape me in ways my younger self could never see.

Through Jim, I found a renewed faith, and through faith, I found myself.

College was my awakening.

I quickly realized how far behind I was — not just academically, but emotionally and socially. My confidence was in pieces.

But in those dorm rooms — crowded with friends, laughter, and deep conversations — something began to shift in me. We talked about dreams, about faith, about what it meant to grow up. Those nights challenged me. They made me see that my “normal” had been broken all along, and that I had a choice to change it.

It was disorienting, but necessary.

My immigrant parents had already built the foundation — family and faith.

They took us to church every Sunday, placing a dollar in each of our small hands for tithe. I still remember how seriously they gave, how faithfully they believed.

After my mother passed, I found my parents' tithing receipts — faded slips of paper, each one a testament to their growing generosity. The numbers looked small, but they were holy. They were their 10%.

I still have a long way to go.

But I am grateful — grateful to keep building upon the foundation that my parents and Jim laid for me. May I raise beams strong enough that my children can build the walls, so their children can one day lay the roof.

And as I continue to build, I hope to pour back into others — to take part in creating ministries and programs that help people find their footing again. To offer second chances, as I’ve been given time and time again. Because grace isn’t meant to end with us — it’s meant to flow through us.

May the generations after us inherit not just wealth, but faith, resilience, and love that multiplies.

I may not live long enough to see the full harvest, but I pray the seeds we sow today will bear fruit for generations to come.