Three Moves Ahead: What Chess Can Teach Families About Critical Thinking
- Lisa Lou
- 1 day ago
- 9 min read
How thoughtful conversations at the family table shape discernment, conviction, and wisdom
Our family has spent many hours gathered around a chessboard, the pieces worn from years of use. We are amateurs, with deeply competitive spirits, and this game has been a part of our family life for decades. It is less about mastery and more about presence, about sitting across from one another and thinking beyond the immediate move. Even now, wherever we might be, when my husband and son see a chessboard, they pause, and without a word, take their seats.
What began as a simple activity has become something more lasting. In our home, chess has shaped the way we think, teaching us to anticipate and see beyond what is right in front of us. It has quietly trained us to consider consequences, to pause before reacting, and to think three moves ahead. This kind of thinking shapes what happens far beyond the board, including the conversations that form our children around the table. This formation shapes the atmosphere of a home and, over time, the strength of a family.
When global tensions rise and headlines remind us how fragile and interconnected the world can feel, we are reminded that the decisions of nations ripple into everyday life. It touches energy markets, diplomatic alliances, economic stability, and global security. Decisions made thousands of miles away often find their way into our neighborhoods, communities, and even our dinner conversations.
In moments like these, the question is not simply what will happen next, but how leaders think when the stakes are high. Several years ago, Christopher and I attended the American Enterprise Institute World Forum, where leaders and scholars from around the world gathered to wrestle with global issues. During our time there, we participated in a war game built around a realistic Middle East conflict where Iran attacked a neighboring country and disabled significant oil reserves throughout the region.
Markets trembled, alliances strained, and every decision we were asked to make had layered consequences. Our table was asked a straightforward but weighty question. How should the United States respond? What became immediately clear was that no decision could be made in isolation. If we chose one path, how would adversaries react? If we delayed action, what message would that send to allies? If we applied economic pressure, what unintended consequences would follow?
Just when we felt confident in a course of action, new intelligence would surface and alter the landscape, forcing us to reconsider our previous decisions. The exercise demanded that we think beyond the immediate moment. As I listened to the discussion unfold, I was struck by how easily decisions become dangerous when they are shaped by partial information or emotional urgency. Wisdom required that we consider the entire picture, not simply the portion that supported our preference.
During the exercise, we were told this was not just an academic scenario created for our conference, but one that had been used in real settings to train military leaders from different countries. In one example, a foreign military group was given the same playbook we were working through. They made decisions based on their own national perspective, history, and priorities.
Then they were asked to review the same facts again, but this time to think and respond as the American military would. When the lens shifted, their decisions shifted, too. The same situation, the same information, but a completely different conclusion when viewed through a different framework.
That moment stayed with me because it revealed something easy to forget. People do not arrive at their perspectives randomly. Their views are shaped by history, experience, culture, and responsibility. When we only listen to voices that mirror our own, we are not strengthening our understanding. We are narrowing it.
We may still arrive at different conclusions, and at times we should. But wisdom calls us to seek understanding before judgment. It asks us to consider not only what we believe, but why someone else might see the same situation differently. And that kind of thinking begins at home, often long before a child has the language to explain it.
I was reminded of something from my own childhood. My father was a landman, and when I was about eleven years old, my school friends and I were discussing the rising price of gasoline. Many of them were upset because their parents were paying more at the pump, while I was excited because in our home, rising oil prices meant opportunity. None of us understood global markets or foreign policy. We were simply repeating what we had heard around our dinner tables the night before, without fully understanding it.
That pattern continued into adulthood in a different way. My husband grew up in Houston, but during his school years his grandparents lived in Washington D.C. His grandfather served as the first Executive Director of the Business Roundtable, engaging with U.S. presidents from Jimmy Carter to George H. W. Bush. You can imagine how lively our dinners became when we gathered together. By the time dessert was served, we were always deep in conversations about the issues of the day that were shaping our country.
What I remember most is not the positions Granddaddy Post held, but the way he led the conversation. He had a steady, thoughtful presence that shaped the tone of the table. He would listen carefully, ask questions, and then walk us through perspectives we had not yet considered. Even when we knew he agreed with us, he would take the time to show us the other side.
He often reminded us, both directly and by example, that there is a difference between politicians and statesmen. A politician may argue a position, but a statesman seeks understanding before judgment. Around that table, we were not taught to win arguments. We were taught to think more deeply, to listen more carefully, and to hold conviction with humility.
That kind of posture feels increasingly rare. Many today struggle to examine an issue without emotion leading the way, and as a result, conversations fracture more quickly. But teaching someone to see the other side is not the same as asking them to agree. It is simply asking them to understand. And understanding is where unity begins.
Children learn about life around the table, long before they have the language to explain what they are absorbing. They learn how their family interprets global events, how they respond to economic shifts, and how they speak about people with whom they disagree. They absorb tone, posture, and priority, and over time, those patterns become the foundation of how they think.
Yet too often I hear families say that they do not talk about politics or that they avoid conversations about faith. The intention may be to protect peace, but silence does not prepare a child for the world they will enter. If we do not teach our children how to think about these matters, someone else will, often without depth, context, or care.
The goal is not to dictate conclusions but to cultivate discernment. When our son was younger, he would often repeat the beliefs we had taught him, and at first, it felt reassuring. But over time, I realized he was simply echoing what he had heard rather than understanding why he believed it. That recognition led us to shift our approach.
Instead of affirming every answer, I began asking questions. I would take the opposite position and challenge our son, asking him to explain his reasoning and consider other perspectives. He had to wrestle with ideas, examine assumptions, and articulate his thoughts. A child who only repeats what he has been told may feel confident in familiar settings, but that confidence will not hold when it is tested. A child who has learned to think, to question, and to reason develops conviction that is both steady and humble.
We are living in a time when many curate their information as carefully as they curate their photos. Social media makes it easy to follow only the voices that affirm what we already believe, which narrows understanding rather than strengthening it. These spaces reward urgency and outrage, long before truth has surfaced. As a result, our children are growing up in an environment where opinions are formed quickly and rarely examined for accuracy.
Teaching them to think three moves ahead now includes teaching them to pause, to verify information, and to ask who benefits from a message. It also means teaching them to recognize when something is not worth their time.
It is remarkably easy to spend hours in arguments with people we will never meet, conversations that rarely lead to understanding and almost never bear fruit. At some point, we must ask whether the hours we spend scrolling are the best use of our time, and whether that time positively or negatively affects the people sitting right in front of us.
Scripture reminds us that how we spend our time matters, and that we are called to use it wisely. We are told to be careful how we live, to walk in wisdom, and to make the most of what has been given to us. Time is not endless. It is a gift, and how we use it reflects what we value.
This is something I have had to learn in my own life. Even in the midst of building what I believe God has called me to, I begin most mornings with a simple prayer. “God, what are we doing today? Show me where You want me to spend my time in a way that honors You.”
Discernment is not only about what we believe, but also about how we steward the hours we have been given.
There is also a relational layer that we must not overlook. Beneath those hostile, argumentative social media exchanges, loneliness, insecurity, and the desire to be heard and valued are often at work. Yet those interactions rarely produce understanding. More often, they harden positions and close hearts.
When children hear parents speak about others with contempt, something formative is happening. They are not just learning opinions, they are learning how to treat people when they disagree. When we use words that demean, label, or belittle those who think differently, we are not simply expressing frustration. We are teaching our children that people who disagree are somehow less worthy of our respect. Over time, that pattern teaches a child to become divisive rather than developing a character of understanding. A child who hears the adults around them speak with contempt learns that certain people are worth dismissing.
Scripture reminds us that the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God. Strong conviction and deep kindness are not opposites. They are companions, and our children must see both lived out in our homes.
One of the simplest tools our family used to cultivate this kind of thinking was the game of chess. We did not begin with strategy. We would sit at the board and let our son become familiar with the pieces, touching them and creating his own imaginary battles. Curiosity always comes before mastery.
Now, as we watch the next generation grow, that same pattern is unfolding again. Our grandson recently sat at the chess table, small hands reaching for the pieces with delight. As he studied the board, we began calling the king the strongman, helping him remember it was the most important piece. He held it with a seriousness that showed us he understood its importance.
He does not yet understand the rules or the strategy, but he is already learning something deeper. He is learning that each piece has a role, that each move matters, and that the game is not about reacting quickly but about paying attention.
Over time, the structure of the game shapes the mind. Each piece has a role, each move carries consequence, and no decision exists in isolation. You cannot focus on one corner of the board without considering how it affects the whole. In many ways, chess becomes a quiet tutor in foresight, patience, and responsibility.
In a world saturated with information and opinion, our children must learn to step back and examine the whole. They must be taught to ask thoughtful questions, to seek multiple perspectives, and to weigh ideas carefully. That kind of formation occurs most naturally within a healthy home, and the table remains one of the most consistent places where it takes root.
It happens when families talk about current events with calm and clarity rather than outrage. It happens when parents model respectful disagreement, thoughtful reasoning, and confidence grounded in faith. It happens when children feel safe enough to wrestle with ideas and strong enough to stand when those ideas are tested.
The dinner table is more than a place for nourishment. It is a place of formation, where we keep conversation simple, set clear expectations, and ask one guiding question, how may I serve the people sitting across from me. Around that table, children learn not only what to think, but how to think.
Healthy homes do not happen accidentally. They are cultivated intentionally through shared rhythms, meaningful conversation, and spiritual grounding. Teaching a child how to think is one of the most lasting gifts we can give.
Scripture reminds us that the horse is made ready for the day of battle, but the victory belongs to the Lord. We cannot control global conflict or prevent every distortion of truth, but we can steward what has been entrusted to us. We can preserve the family, protect the table, and shape the way the next generation learns to think.
And it often begins in a quiet moment, with a chessboard between us, where a child learns to pause and see beyond the next move. Over time, those small moments of attention and conversation teach them to think three moves ahead, to see the entire board, and to stand with conviction when it matters most.
This is how we preserve the family, and this is how we steward the next generation well.
Together with you,
Lisa Lou
If this article made you think about the conversations around your own table, share it with someone who is building a home alongside you. These are the moments that shape families, often in ways we only recognize years later.
