In the mid-1980s, I had reached a career milestone as Senior Vice President and CFO of Maccabees Mutual Life Insurance Company in Southfield, Michigan. But that success came at a cost—my family was paying the price for my long hours and constant travel. My wife, Sue, was carrying the parenting load for our three young daughters: nine-year-old Heidi, five-year-old Dena, and three-year-old Denise.

To expand my network, I volunteered on several industry boards. I served as president of the Michigan Actuarial Society and joined committees for the American Council of Life Insurance (ACLI). These roles provided professional value but deepened my work-life imbalance.

ACLI meetings were usually held in Washington, D.C. I typically flew in from Detroit the night before, attended meetings, then flew back home the same day. But one Thursday in May 1984 ushered in a welcomed change.

After checking into my hotel that evening, someone recommended dinner at “The 1789” in Georgetown. I brought meeting documents with me, hoping to read during dinner. But the restaurant was too dimly lit, and instead, I found myself observing the other diners.

At a nearby table sat Bob Johannsen, a fellow committee member, dining with his daughter, who looked to be around 13. When I stopped to say hello, Bob greeted me warmly. “This is my daughter,” he said. “I often bring my kids on business trips and stay an extra day or two to sightsee.”

That simple exchange struck me deeply. Bob was no less busy than I was, yet he had carved out intentional time with his children. I returned to my hotel and immediately called Sue. “What would you think of sending Heidi to Washington tomorrow?” I asked. “We could spend the weekend sightseeing.”

“That’s a terrific idea!” she said. By the next evening, I was at the airport waiting for Heidi. I saw the nervousness in her face as she walked off the plane alone, but when she spotted me, she lit up with a big smile. We were both excited for our weekend adventure.
It was her first trip to Washington. We visited the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, Arlington Cemetery, and Ford’s Theater. At the Lincoln Memorial, Heidi begged me to race her up the steps.

“How about I time you instead?” I offered. Giggling, she ran up and back, then insisted on trying again in order to beat her time.
At the Vietnam Memorial, I searched for the name of my childhood friend Arnie Sarna, who was killed in the war. I had once questioned the design of the Wall, but standing in front of it, seeing the countless letters and flowers, I was overwhelmed. I wept.
“Why are you crying, Daddy?” Heidi asked.

I struggled to explain war and loss, but something important happened in that moment—Heidi saw a deeper side of her father, and we connected on a profound level.

I never imagined that chance dinner would start a life-changing tradition. From that day forward, I began taking annual one-on-one trips with each of my five children. Early trips were local hotel stays; later ones involved cultural destinations and even international travel. But it was never about where we went—it was about being together.

Over the years, I shared this tradition with thousands of New York Life employees and agents. Hundreds began similar practices with their own families. That single weekend had sparked something much bigger than I could have planned.

Looking back, I believe God orchestrated that meeting at “The 1789.” He knew how it would multiply blessings—not just in my family, but through the stories shared with others. Even after retirement, the most common comment I receive in emails and holiday cards from New York Life colleagues is, “Thank you for telling those stories. We started making similar trips with our kids.”
During eight of my last eleven years at New York Life, the company held the top U.S. market share in life insurance sales. But I now believe my most enduring legacy isn’t in sales or financial performance—it’s the way faith and family values inspired a ripple effect in others’ lives.