In 1994, I was finishing high school, and in the months leading up to graduation something a little unusual was happening.

That year I was enrolled in a program called Diversified Occupations, taught by Mr. Bob Schnetzka, which allowed me to leave school early to work. I had been motivated to work from a young age. My parents were both government employees, and while they provided well for us, there wasn’t a lot of extra money for the “extras.” So I hustled.

By my senior year, school felt like it was holding me back from the adventures I believed life had to offer. I carried a kind of wanderlust — a deep restlessness to move, explore, and see what life might hold beyond the familiar.

That feeling takes me back to my upbringing — shaped by faithful parents in a small-town setting — and an early awareness and hope that my life might eventually stretch beyond those borders.

My dad spent years commuting from near the Pennsylvania–Maryland Mason-Dixon line down to Baltimore every single day. Long drives. Long hours. By the time he got home, he was exhausted and ready for bed.

But I wasn’t.

From my bedroom I’d call out, “Dad… Dad… come here.”
And he would.

I’d talk to him about what I was working toward — things I had put on layaway (when a store held something until it was fully paid for), the money I still needed to earn, the worries I carried, and the questions I had about what I might do with my life.

Because the truth was, school didn’t come easy for me.

I had learning disabilities from a young age. I was in special reading classes throughout elementary school and into middle school. Academics were a struggle. I loved school for the people — the connection, the social side — but the books and the classroom rhythm just didn’t click. I was certainly a late bloomer and often labeled a not the best student.

Even so, I still wanted a relationship — with God, with purpose, and with the life I sensed might be ahead of me.

One night, after listening to me talk through my fears about the future, my dad said something that stuck with me:

“Phil, you can do whatever you want to do — and you’ll probably spin your wheels like a truck stuck in the mud.
Or you can do what God has for you, and you’ll have an amazing adventure.”

I was counting on the latter.

At a young age, I gave my heart to Jesus during preschool chapel at Harford Christian School. I didn’t yet fully understand what that commitment meant, but I listened intently and genuinely wanted to respond faithfully. Whenever there was an altar call, I went forward — sometimes more than once — just to be sure I had made that commitment. Eventually Pastor McKnight gently walked me back to my pew and said, “Phil, it’s okay — it already took.”

Kindergarten class, 1979–1980. Taught by the pastor’s wife — a quiet beginning to a faith journey I wouldn’t fully understand until much later.

Even then, I wanted that relationship.
I wanted the adventure.

But while the commitment was real, the maturity of that relationship was still growing. I was still searching for identity — Who am I? Who will I become?

That search showed up in different seasons.

In the weeks leading up to graduation, the local newspaper reached out to interview me. I had started stepping into something unexpected: modeling. This was never a goal of mine. I originally just wanted to be an extra on a movie set. A talent agency asked if I would consider a few modeling gigs, and suddenly a new label appeared — I was a model.

That same week — the week of my high school graduation — a local newspaper ran an article about it on the front page. It wasn’t something I expected or was chasing. Honestly, I was just grateful that I had made it to graduation.

After graduation, many of my friends headed off to college. I didn’t. I wasn’t ready.

That same year, I had a powerful encounter with God through an older lady I worked with at a local restaurant. Something about that conversation stayed with me. Later, alone at home, I opened my Bible and came across these words:

“The Lord is near to all who call on Him, to all who call on Him in truth.” — Psalm 145:18

I shared that moment with my dad that very evening — not because I had everything figured out, but because, at such a critical age on the verge of launching into adulthood, I knew my faith and hope were being gently realigned.

I knew God was working — not just around me, but in me.

And like many renovations, it got worse before it got better — walls came down, plans changed, and nothing looked finished for a while.

I found myself off course, in the wrong set of circumstances, and far from where I should have been. But in what I can only describe as grace, I was redirected — back on track and heading toward South Florida.

Let’s skip ahead to the better.

An opportunity opened up to model in South Florida, and I went. A few bags. A one-way sense of adventure. I ended up living with a grandfather I barely knew — Pop — in Fort Lauderdale, heading down to South Beach for castings along Ocean Drive.

One day on a job, I met a guy named Mike Meyer. We were working on a movie set, and I noticed his comp card — he was represented by a premier modeling agency in South Beach at the time. We started talking about work, and then about life. Instead of talking about himself or the industry, he talked about his faith. He invited me to church.

That simple invitation was exactly what I didn’t know I was looking for.

That encounter became a friendship that has now spanned more than three decades.

Photo of Mike and I on one of many adventures: Mexico 2004

And that’s really the point of this story.

As we move through life, the world is eager to label us and hand out titles.

For me, those labels came in different seasons:

Student.
Pawn shop employee.
Model.
Yacht captain.
Estate manager.
Realtor.
Financial services representative.
Broker.
Business owner.
Husband.
Father.

Some of these I carried for a season and left behind.
Some blended into one another.
Some shaped me more than I realized at the time.

But one identity has remained steady through every season.

Christian.
Christ follower.

I’m grateful for my friend Mike — not because of what he did for a living, but because of what he pointed me toward. When asked about opportunities, he didn’t boast. He simply said, “I trust God.”

That has been my prayer ever since:
that whatever opportunities and adventures come my way, I would be found a faithful steward — and that my identity would never be rooted in what I do, but in who I follow.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
— Jeremiah 29:11