What I Told My Son About Value

It started like any normal Saturday. But those are always the ones that catch you off guard—the kind of days that blend into routine until someone, usually a child, says something so simple yet so piercing that you realize you’re standing at the intersection of generations.

That morning, my son Aden woke up early. We shared a quiet moment, just the two of us. Somewhere between brushing his teeth and looking for his favorite toy, he casually remarked, “Popo is rich.”

I paused, not because I disagreed, but because I knew there was something behind that comment. I asked, “How do you know?”

His answer was innocent, and oddly specific. “I saw her bank balance. There were so many digits.” In his nine-year-old world, where wealth is measured by the number of stickers he can redeem or coins saved in an ang pao packet, Popo had reached godlike status.

But then came the real question: “Is it because you’re all grown up now that she has a lot of money?”

That’s when I knew—we weren’t just talking about Popo. We were opening the door to something deeper: What does it really mean to be rich? And how do we teach that to our children?

When the Goal Is Flawed from the Start

As a father, I’ve come to realize there are moments you don’t lecture—you plant seeds. That morning, I could sense we were standing on one of those moments. I told my son, “Popo is rich not just because she has money. She’s rich because she created value. And the money? It followed.”

I explained that she worked hard her whole life—not just to earn a living, but to raise a family, build a future, and live out her responsibilities with integrity. “She didn’t focus on chasing money,” I said. “She focused on building something that mattered. That’s why she has what she has.”

Then I added something I really wanted him to remember.

“Money is a tool. Like a screwdriver. It helps you open doors, fix things, build things. But here’s the danger: if you start worshipping the screwdriver instead of what you’re building with it, you’ve missed the point entirely. Don’t fall in love with the tool. Love the work. Love the meaning behind it.”

He listened—but this time, he looked confused. Not defiant. Not dismissive. Just quietly unsure, like something didn’t quite land.

So I tried again.

“Imagine this. What if Elon Musk’s children said, ‘We were born into a rich family. We don’t need to study, build, or work. We can just lie flat and do nothing.’ Imagine that. All the brilliance, all the opportunity, all the inheritance—and they choose to waste it. What a loss that would be, right?”

His eyes narrowed a little. He was starting to see it.

“That’s why the goal in life is never to make money,” I told him. “It’s to create value. Value for others. Value for the world. Value in the way you speak, serve, love, build, or even clean the house. When you do that, money becomes a natural result—not the purpose.”

This time, he didn’t just nod. He looked like he was trying to carry that thought with him, letting it settle somewhere deeper.

The Quiet Discipline of a Different Generation

I was raised in a fairly comfortable home. I never went hungry. I never lacked what I needed. But my childhood was marked by something other than abundance—it was marked by discipline. My mother never bought herself new clothes. Leftovers were never wasted. Entertainment, if it existed at all, was carefully rationed, as though joy was a luxury that might one day run out.

At the time, I didn’t question it. It was simply how things were. But as I grew older, I began to see the hidden cost of that kind of thrift. Yes, it taught me appreciation. Yes, it protected me from entitlement. But it also taught me that self-denial was virtuous, even if it meant neglecting your own well-being.

I began to see how that discipline—so powerful in moderation—could mutate into something unhealthy when left unexamined. I saw relatives who worked themselves into exhaustion long after they were financially secure. Some suffered mental breakdowns. Some lost their marriages. Some lost themselves.

They had land. They had wealth. But they lived like beggars. Not because they had to—but because they didn’t know how not to.

The Exodus of the Next Generation

And the effects rippled beyond them. Their children—my cousins—didn’t stay. Some of them moved abroad. Not just because of better job opportunities, but because they didn’t want to live in the shadow of scarcity anymore.

Scarcity can be physical. But it can also be emotional. Scarcity of joy. Scarcity of play. Scarcity of warmth. And when that becomes the legacy passed down—wrapped in the name of discipline—it creates a new generation that wants to run, not return.

That’s when it hit me: frugality, while virtuous, is not a virtue when it erodes health, joy, or connection. It’s not noble to sacrifice everything for your children, only to become a stranger they want to escape from.

When Inheritance Turns Into Apathy

On the opposite end, I saw the dangers of excess without purpose. A news article from China told the story of a young PhD graduate who calculated that, due to his family’s wealth, he could live comfortably for the rest of his life without ever working. And so he didn’t.

This young man became part of what’s now known in China as the “躺平族” (tǎng píng zú)—the “lie-flat tribe.” A growing subculture of young people who reject ambition, responsibility, and societal expectations because they see no point in striving in a system they believe is stacked against them.

More than 50% of Gen Zs in China now believe that hard work doesn’t guarantee a better life, according to Pew Research (2022). Many are choosing apathy over burnout.

At first glance, it seems like rebellion. But it’s actually resignation. And to me, it’s more terrifying than failure. Because it’s not born from poverty—it’s born from privilege without purpose.

Which brings me to a hard truth I believe every generation needs to face:

The opposite of wealth isn’t poverty. It’s waste.

The Parable We Keep Forgetting

There’s a story in the Bible that haunts me.

A master gives three servants some money—“talents”—and leaves. Two of them invest and multiply the money. One buries it, thinking that at least he didn’t lose it.

But when the master returns, he is furious—not with those who risked and failed, but with the one who played it safe.

That story is about far more than money.

It’s about potential. About responsibility. About what we do with what we’re given—whether that’s wealth, time, wisdom, or talent.

It’s not a sin to be poor. It’s not even a sin to fail. But it is a tragedy to waste what’s been entrusted to you.

That’s what I want my son to understand. And that’s what I need to remind myself, every single day.

Building the L.O.H Legacy

What started as “just another reunion” became something much more.

This past year, for the first time, I organized a second family reunion—not because it was tradition, but precisely because it wasn’t. I found myself asking: Why should reunion only happen once a year, and only on Chinese New Year Eve? Why not gather again, just because legacy deserves the space?

There were no fireworks. No stage. No speeches. Just a table full of food we prepared ourselves, a house filled with voices and generations, and a few hours carved out for something sacred: connection with intention.

Behind the meal, I gave the day a theme—“The L.O.H Legacy”—not to impress, but to invite. Because the name “Loh” isn’t just a surname we carry. It’s a calling we pass on.

Here’s what it means to us:

• L – Last 14 Generations: Inspired by the 14-generational lineage of Christ, we don’t just think about our children—we act for the great-grandchildren we may never meet.
• O – Overflowing Love: Love, if hoarded, hardens. Love, when given, multiplies. It rebuilds what scarcity once broke and fills the quiet gaps between us.
• H – Honour God: At the core is faith—not in ritual, but in relationship. We honour God not just in belief, but in how we treat one another, how we steward time, and how we show up for family.

This wasn’t just a framework. It became a lens.

During the celebration, some cousins shared updates. Some uncles opened up about dreams. Even those who rarely talk about faith joined in worship and prayer. It didn’t feel like an event—it felt like restoration.

Yes, it was messy. There were differences in beliefs, schedules, priorities. But with my wife and Teacher Charng’s support, the cousins, and the blessing from seniors, we made it simple for everyone else: come, eat, rest. We’ll handle the rest.

And in doing that, I realized something:

Legacy isn’t built at the end of life. It’s built at the table, one ordinary gathering at a time.

We don’t need a stage to lead. We don’t need a mic to minister.

Sometimes, the most sacred work is done right in your own living room.

What My Son Now Knows

That night, after our conversation, my son came back to me.

“If I help clean the house… that’s value, right?”

He didn’t just want to do chores. He wanted to understand contribution. Purpose. Worth.

“Yes,” I told him. “Because it frees our time. Because it helps the family. Because it matters.”

He smiled—not because he was about to get a reward, but because he realized he already had one: clarity.

He’s nine. He won’t understand balance sheets or inflation yet. But he understands value. And that’s where real wealth begins.

The Reverse That Redefines It All

We live in a world that celebrates accumulation but rarely questions multiplication. We inherit names, lands, faith, gifts—and too often, we settle for protecting them, rather than multiplying them.

But protecting something that was meant to grow is another form of wasting it.

The paradox is this:

The more you give, the more you have.

Whether it’s love, wisdom, talent, or time—these things don’t shrink when you share them. They expand. They take root in others. They become legacy.

So when my son grows up and tells his children, “Popo was rich,” I hope he adds, “Because she created value. And we still carry it.”

And when they ask him, “Are we rich?”—

I hope he smiles and says, “Let me show you how we live.”