What Will They Say About Us Someday?

By LONNIE KING

I was watching a recent CNN segment when an unexpected thought crossed my mind.

The discussion centered on reports that military personnel attending an upcoming UFC event at the White House would be required to meet specific fitness standards.

Republican commentator Scott Jennings dismissed the story as fake news, citing information he said came from the White House. Moments later, Kaitlan Collins produced language from a Pentagon memo that appeared to confirm the policy in question.

Politics aside, the exchange left Jennings in an awkward position.

But what struck me wasn’t the politics. It wasn’t even whether Jennings knowingly repeated inaccurate information or was simply passing along what he had been told. It was a different question altogether.

What do moments like that feel like when the cameras are off?

And what will the people closest to us think about them years later?

The Questions That Follow Us Home

I don’t know Scott Jennings. I don’t know what he believes privately. I don’t know whether he left that segment frustrated with the White House, frustrated with the media, or convinced he had done nothing wrong.

What I do know is that every public figure eventually goes home.

Every politician. Every pastor. Every television commentator. Every CEO. Every parent. And eventually, the people who know us best begin forming opinions about the lives we’ve lived.

Children become adults. Grandchildren grow up. Family stories get told. Legacies get evaluated.

The question isn’t always whether we won the argument. Sometimes the question is whether we were honest.

A Very Brief Time in My Life

There was a very brief time in my life when I was a pastor.

I believed deeply in what I was doing. I wasn’t trying to manipulate anyone. I wasn’t trying to deceive people. I genuinely thought I was helping. But over time, cracks began to appear.

People would ask questions I couldn’t answer as confidently as I once had. They would challenge assumptions I had inherited without ever examining. And more than once, I found myself falling back on versions of the same response:

“Well, you just don’t believe.”

At the time, it was an answer. One that I coached to lean into, too. And, if the people with questions would not accept my vagaries, then I was supposed to ‘shake the dust off my feet’ and go find someone who would.

But looking back, I realize it was a copout, often a way to avoid admitting that I wasn’t as certain as I wanted everyone to think I was.

The harder truth was that I had begun asking questions myself. And sometimes, while I was defending a position publicly, a quieter question was running through my mind: what am I doing here?

The Cost of Staying

One of the things I’ve learned as I’ve gotten older is that walking away from something isn’t always a sign of weakness. Sometimes it’s the opposite.

Sometimes staying costs less than leaving. Sometimes remaining silent costs less than speaking honestly. Sometimes repeating the company line is easier than admitting your doubts.

I think about politicians who once warned us about Donald Trump and now defend him at every turn. I think about pundits who continue repeating narratives that can be contradicted by publicly available evidence.

I think about pastors who privately struggle with doctrines they continue to preach because their entire identity depends on maintaining the role. And if I’m being honest, I think about the version of myself that once did something similar.

Not politically, but spiritually. The details may be different, but the temptation is the same. Most of the time, it’s easier to go along to get along, and live a lie to remain in the pack.

What Do Our Kids Learn?

One of the reasons I eventually walked away from ministry was that I could no longer reconcile some of what I was being asked to defend with what I genuinely believed.

Part of that decision was about my own integrity. But part of it was about my children.

I have four kids. I knew there would come a day when they would be old enough to evaluate my life for themselves.

They would look at what I believed. What I defended. What I taught. What I tolerated.

And I wanted to be able to look them in the eye and say that when I realized something no longer aligned with my values, I was willing to reconsider it.

Not perfectly. Not flawlessly. But honestly.

That’s the legacy I wanted to leave behind.

The Stories That Remain

I don’t know what history will say about today’s politicians, commentators, or public figures. History has a way of surprising us. But I do know that titles eventually disappear.

Power changes hands. Influence fades. The applause stops.

What remains are the stories people tell about us. The stories our children tell. The stories our grandchildren inherit. The stories that survive after we’re gone.

I don’t expect my name to appear in a history book. Most of us won’t. But the people who know us best will still tell stories about the kind of people we were.

And there will be questions to be answered.

• Were we honest when honesty became costly?
• Were we willing to change when evidence demanded it?
• Were we more loyal to the truth than to the tribe?

Those are the questions that matter to me now. And someday, they may be the questions our children ask as well. The actions I take today may be the answers that become my legacy years from now.

Grace and grit to you! —LK