Coachable Moments

Locking into the passion of being what we are designed to be

When I was eight years old, my dad woke me up early one morning just after he returned from working the midnight shift. His voice propelled me out of the sack when he told me that he had brought home something special for me. I jumped out of bed and ran to the kitchen to see what he had. I first noticed two big brown eyes staring at me accompanied by a rapid wag of a white-tipped tail. There were also ears in the ready position elevated just a notch as if to ponder; I hope you are happy to see me? I was more than happy. I felt the flow of pure excitement as I slid on my faded pajamas toward my dog, with my arms extended and ready to lock-on to the first of what would be a million hugs. He was a beautiful beagle that we would quickly name Sam.

Back in those days, leash laws were pretty soft. As a result, Sam followed me most everywhere. He was my partner during little-league games as he would sit and watch for short stints in between encounters with the crowd. Sam seemed to always parlay these interactions into some attention and a scratch on the head.

He would run along side my bike while I delivered papers for The Buffalo Evening News. There were times when Sam would protect me from another dog. There were times when I would protect him. We were friends and he was a special dog.

What I cherish most about Sam are the memories of the many annual outings we both took with my dad. The first day of pheasant season was like Christmas for Sam. We would get in the smallish kitchen with the speckled floor at about 4:30 am. My dad would drink his coffee and I would eat my cereal as I felt good about skipping school and getting to the fields where the birds were in hiding. Sam would be pacing like a fighter waiting to leap into the ring. My dad had all the gear. Brown canvas with a lot of orange accent was the fashion for this day. We would fill a thermos with steaming hot black coffee and pack some lunch in a brown bag. The lunch always seemed to taste much better than it should have. Then we would drive to meet up with a few of my dad’s friends. Once we were in the field, Sam had a look that was different from any other look, on any other day. His energy and awareness were heightened. His big eyes were just a little more alive than usual with anticipation. He was ready to jump into action.

I would walk just behind my dad, off his right flank. Sam would be out front plowing the field where there was growth that never seemed to be high enough to hide that white tip on the end of his tail. It was as though God dipped his tail in a little white piece of heaven, just before Sam came off the assembly line as a finishing touch from the Masters hand.

He would zigzag in a hurried state of readiness and high-energy, as he pressed against the scent of a bird. The pheasants would often hold on to the fleeting cover until the last shave of a second, as Sam refused to lose the bounty at the end of the trail. Suddenly, a burst of feathers and the sound of that flapping motion of panic would erupt from the brush. Just as the bird would begin to take flight, my dad took care of business as if he was satisfying his unspoken covenant with Sam. He did not miss often. The bird would instantly provide a riveting demonstration of the power of gravity and we were soon loading the bag that I proudly carried on my vest. Then we would get back to work. Sam was in constant motion. He always wanted more.

It was many years later, long after Sam had left me, that I realized what he taught me on those annual outings with my dad.

One day, I was telling my family about Sam; and it hit me. I shared how he would sit between me and my dad on the front seat as we traveled home from the hunt. He was so proud of himself. He looked completely content and satisfied with his effort. He knew he had done what he was designed to do. He knew he was good at it. He did his best. He helped his master’s cause to the best of his ability. He was tired. Sometimes he would be cut up a bit from the chase. Sam did not get every bird. He always experienced joy in the process. I always loved watching his joy in motion.

It took years for the seeds of an important lesson from one of God’s beautiful and loyal creatures to take root, but Sam finally taught me the importance of doing what we are designed to do. As a dad, mom, spouse, son, daughter or friend we are designed to encourage and nurture. We are not designed to discourage.

What are you designed for? Like Sam, we may be tired and banged-up a bit out in the wilderness. We may be a little thirsty. We may let a few get away that we thought we had securely in our grasp. When we do what we are designed to do, we have a sense of satisfaction, contentment and joy; even when we don’t always find what we set out to find on life’s bumpy and sometime hazardous trail.

You know what you were designed for. The Bible says that God numbered the hairs on your head. He knows the plans he has just for you.

Let’s take some time to recapture the scent of joy and passion, even if the trail has been hard to find from time-to-time. We can do it.

What are you uniquely designed to do in service to others?

It’s not too late to lock-on! We can start now.