I grew up at the foothills of inspiration. Right outside my front-door loomed Colorado’s majestic Pikes Peak. One of the first things I noticed when I moved to Minnesota was that there were no mountains — lots of gorgeous lakes, but no mountains. It was disorienting. For as long as I could remember, the mountains meant “west.” Absent of that reference point, I felt lost and confused.

Metaphorically, goals are our mountains. They inspire a daily, almost subconscious, orientation in our lives. It’s important we have them. But in the shadow of the mountain, lies the foothills and valleys. This is our day-to-day terrain. It’s where we learn the hard lessons of life — those of disappointment, loss, failure, fear, fatigue and death. Good things are learned here too. We learn that we are not alone. We have a Guide who takes us through our valley of shadow and death (Psalm 23:4). We learn about perseverance and, its twin discipline, trust. And we learn that the more attentively we follow our Guide through this terrain, the more strength we gain to reach the summit.

Your thoughts? In what ways are you gaining strength in your personal valley?

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I remember early in my career, as I entered my first big corporate job, being so astonished at the talent of my coworkers. Their intellect and self-assurance intimidated me. During department meetings, I would sit quietly, for instance, never asking a question and hoping I wouldn’t be asked one in return, lest I appear unprepared or say something patently stupid. My goal was to merely live up to the expectations my coworkers had of someone (it could have been anyone) doing the job that I occupied. In the words of Thomas Watson, I was a flattened conformist. Little or no thought was given to how my particular skills and interests might be uniquely applied to advance the company’s mission. I was comfortable in my little box. And to keep it that way, when challenged, I’d acquiesce and seek the path of least resistance. With no raison d’être — no cause to be personally invested in — I could be vocationally lazy, despite laboring hard. But conformity by choosing comfort over cause was a denial of the unique gifts God gave me. Suppressing my unique wiring dishonored His creative expression. Even today, I must continually resist the desire to be what I see in others and remind myself that my path is unique. And it honors God best when I stand up and be counted for it.

Your thoughts? Are there areas of conformity that denies the unique expression of God’s gifting in your life?

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Maturity. It’s something we like to think we have in abundance–at least more than the other guy. The apostle Paul measured maturity in some surprising ways. Spiritual maturity comes from the intentional exercise of three habits. This 35-minute presentation examines the maturity trifecta found in Philippians 3:12-4:1. It was delivered as part of the “True Lives: You Can’t Fake Know-How” series at IronWorks.

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Our family is fortunate to share our secluded suburban property with an astonishing array of wildlife. Deer, fox, wild turkey, rabbits, duck, geese, egrets, and herons are all frequent visitors. In his youth, our dog, an American Staffordshire Terrier, would give them chase. Twelve years later, age and cataracts have dampened both Casey’s vision and inclination. That was, until we had an unexpected visitor.

My neighbor dropped by recently while on a walk with his daughter. “Did you notice there’s a swan in your pond?” he asked. Astonished, I went around to the backyard and saw this amazingly large and beautiful creature. Apparently, our shortsighted dog hadn’t noticed it either—until I went inside to get my camera. By the time I returned, Casey had leapt through his “invisible fence” and was dog-paddling toward the middle of the pond in pursuit of his prey.

No shouts from his master standing on the shore would deter him. He paddled relentlessly onward. As he neared his target, the swan rose up and flew to the other side of the pond, as if to mock his doggedness. Undaunted, Casey changed course and continued the pursuit. More calls from his master. No effect. My cataract-laden dog had apparently lost his hearing, as well.

It occurred to me, after witnessing several of these course corrections, that Casey would either get the swan or die trying. At his age, the latter was more likely. Since I didn’t have the heart to tell my daughter that her dog had drowned himself from fatigue and my neighbor had no interest in explaining our dog’s death to his four-year old, we both piled into my paddle-boat to rescue “Dumb Dog” (as I was now calling him).

As I reflected on our excursion, it occurred to me that God often rescues Dumb Me from similar pursuits. There He is, standing on the shore, calling my name, and there I am, pushing blindly ahead toward an ever evasive goal.

Even as we drew near in our boat, Dumb Dog would ignore us and deadly fatigue in favor of the elusive swan. Not until we positioned the boat on an intercept course could we divert his attention.

Now I’m wondering, What swans am I pursuing so doggedly that I can no longer hear the Master’s voice calling from the shore? Who might He have put on an intercept course to rescue me with the truth? And, Am I open to evaluate the direction I am pursuing in my life? Proverbs 12:15 says, “The way of a fool seems right to him, but a wise man listens to advice.”

Perseverance is a godly trait; obstinance is a “dogly” trait. The difference always has been listening for and obeying the Master’s voice.

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Tackling a century ride (mine was a metric century – 100 km) is akin to climbing a mountain. You do it because it’s there – the goal is it’s own reward. Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself during the freezing onslaught of wind and rain. It’s easier to amuse yourself with thoughts of the finish line when enthusiasm and energy is still strong, however.

Someone once said that the size of your commitment can be measured by what it takes to stop you. By the time my three riding companions and I had reached the first rest stop at 25 miles, the strongest rider weighed in on the size of his commitment. Frozen fingers bested him. He packed it in. Before the day was over, more than a thousand others would join him.

Admittedly, when he bailed, I had second thoughts too. I might have been easily swayed to the comforts of a nice bath had my friend Andy not shown his resolve. He was my inspiration to endure and claim my prize. We may have been nuts to continue, to risk hypothermia, but because I did, I not only reached my goal, but I picked up a few reminders as well.

You do a lot of thinking over hours of pedal churning when the wind and rain are against you. I thought a lot about quitting. I really was nuts. Yet, every once in awhile I’d look up from my hunkered down position and see Andy, pedaling like a metronome. His presence inspired my grind. Who can I help keep going by being a constant companion in the storms of life?

When we turned into the wind, I thought about drafting. As the stronger rider, Andy silently encouraged me to follow in his draft by slowing his pace to mine. By tucking in behind him, his body acted as a shield from the headwinds, allowing me to preserve my energy for the long haul. Professional cyclists call it a slipstream and they use it, too, to nab their prize. Had Andy not slowed to my pace, I would have tired more quickly and may not have finished. Am I aware of the needs of those around me or am I oblivious as I race ahead?

When we crossed the finish line, I thought about gratitude. Certainly I was thankful the torment was over, but even more so, I was grateful for my riding companion who helped me endure. In my own personal storms, who can I express gratitude to?

My wife was right. It was nuts to be out there. But I was fortunate. I had a draft from the storm, and something more. I had new resolve to be a better draft for others.

SOUND OFF: How have you been helped by someone’s draft in difficult times?

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