Built for Significance

🐴 Don't Look a Gift Horse in the Mouth

There’s an old saying we’ve heard our whole lives, but rarely slow down to examine:

“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”



It was never about horses.

It was about gratitude, trust, and response.

A gift isn’t given to be inspected.

It’s given to be received.

Yet most people don’t miss their calling because they refuse it.

They miss it because they analyze it to death.

Instead of stepping forward, they start asking:





Am I ready?



Am I qualified?



Why me?



Is this really from God?

And while they’re questioning… the moment passes.

Here’s the truth we don’t like admitting:

God often places responsibility in our hands before we feel confident, clear, or complete.

Not because we’re impressive—but because we’re entrusted.

Gifts don’t arrive finished.

They arrive to grow us.

They come with resistance.

They require stewardship.

They demand faithfulness.

And when we hesitate long enough, it’s not wisdom holding us back—it’s fear dressed up as discernment.



Legacy isn’t built by those who wait for perfect conditions.

It’s built by those who say:

“Thank you. I’ll take responsibility from here.”



So let me ask you plainly:

👉What has been placed in your hands right now that you keep inspecting instead of stewarding?



Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

Step into it.

3 weeks ago | [YT] | 0

Built for Significance

The Giant That Measured Shadows

A Tall Tale About Identity, Fear & the Lies That Follow Us...

They say long ago — or maybe just last Tuesday — there was a giant named Brannoc the Broad-Backed, the tallest soul ever to walk the Valley of Low Voices.

Brannoc was massive.

Mountains flinched when he stretched.

Trees whispered about him like scandal.

Even the wind seemed to tiptoe around his ankles.

But for all his size… Brannoc was terrified of one thing: His own shadow.



Every morning at sunrise, the townspeople would see him lumber out of his cave carrying two things:

A massive wooden ruler — carved from the trunk of a thousand-year-old pine.

A wrinkled notebook held together by rope and stubbornness.

Then he’d wait… and as the sun rose, he’d turn, look over his shoulder, and measure the length of the dark shape behind him.

He logged every inch.

Every angle.

Every shift.



People whispered: “Why measure what you can’t control?”

“Why track something that isn’t even real?”

“Why fear something that disappears by noon?”

Brannoc never answered. He just kept measuring.



Back when Brannoc was young — barely taller than a farmhouse — an old roving prophet once told him: “The size of a giant’s shadow reveals the size of his destiny… but also the size of the lies he believes.”

That stuck.

And like many of us, Brannoc misunderstood the message completely.

He assumed: Bigger shadow = bigger problem.

So he spent his life tracking his shadow like a man checking his weaknesses every hour… convinced the dark behind him was proof he’d never be enough.



One winter dawn, the sky burned orange, the sun hit low, and Brannoc turned to measure his shadow… But this time?

It stretched for miles.

Longer than ever.

Darker than ever.

It swallowed the valley walls.

Brannoc dropped to his knees. “I knew it,” he muttered. “I’m nothing but a burden. A danger. A mistake too big for daylight.”

And he prepared to retreat into his cave forever.



A little girl — five years old, hair in messy braids, courage bigger than her shoes — walked straight into the giant’s shadow.

“Hi,” she said. “Your shadow is warm.”

Brannoc blinked. “Warm?”

She sat cross-legged. “Shadows are only dark when you look at them. But if you stand inside someone’s shadow… you find shade, safety, and a place to rest.”

She added: “A shadow only grows long when the light is right behind you.”



For the first time in his life, Brannoc turned toward the sunrise.

His shadow wasn’t a threat. It was evidence — evidence the light had never left him.

He dropped the ruler.

Tore the notebook.

And stood tall — not because the shadow shrank, but because he finally understood:

A shadow only looks dangerous when you’re facing the wrong direction.



We keep measuring what was never meant to be measured:

• Our flaws

• Our past

• Our insecurities

• Our fears

• The lies whispered at our lowest



They look big only because the Light is behind us — pushing us forward.

Turn toward the Light, and the shadow falls behind you where it belongs.

1 month ago | [YT] | 1

Built for Significance

🦃 Tommy "Two-Step" Turkey: The Bird Who tried to Outsmart Thanksgiving 🦃

A Tall Tale About Pride, Self-Reliance, and the Truth That Catches Every One of Us Eventually:

Out on the rugged outskirts of Ironwood Valley lived a turkey named Tommy “Two-Step” Turkey — a bird so slick, so clever, and so full of himself that if turkeys had LinkedIn, he’d have listed “Escape Artist” as his profession.

Tommy didn’t walk — he strutted.
He didn’t talk — he boasted.
And he didn’t run — he performed a legendary zig-zag dance pattern called the Turkey Two-Step, guaranteed (according to him) to confuse hunters, coyotes, and the occasional slow-witted farm cat.

And every year, like clockwork, Tommy survived Thanksgiving.
He dodged nets.
He slipped past traps.
He led farmers on wild goose chases — which was impressive, since he wasn’t a goose.
He even had a trophy wall of old tools, gloves, and hats from hunters he’d outsmarted.

The other turkeys admired him.
Some envied him.
Most simply put up with him.
Because Tommy had one fatal flaw:

He believed he was invincible.

Then there was Old Rufus.
Rufus was the oldest turkey on the farm — scarred, slow, and wise in that quiet “I’ve seen things you don’t want to see” kind of way.
Every year, around mid-November, Rufus warned the younger turkeys:
“Don’t trust your own feathers too much. Humility saves more lives than speed.”
Tommy would laugh, flip his tail feathers, and strut away.

“Rufus, buddy — you stick to wisdom, I’ll stick to winning.”

But this particular year… something changed.
The farmer upgraded.
New fences.
New gates.
New technology.
Motion sensors.
Thermal cameras.
Drones.
It looked like Jurassic Park moved into Ironwood Valley.

Tommy laughed at all of it.
“This little tech won’t stop me. I’ve got the Two-Step!”

Rufus shook his head.
“Son, pride makes you blind long before trouble makes you fall.”
Tommy ignored him again.

Thanksgiving Week arrived.

The sky turned gray.
The wind went cold.
And Tommy felt… excited.
“This is it,” he said, puffing his chest. “This year I’ll break my personal record.”
He waited for nightfall.

Then, as always, he launched into his escape routine:
two steps left
spin
hop
zig
zag
dramatic roll
sprint through the cornfield

Only this year…
Halfway into his dance…Lights snapped on.
Sirens blared.
Floodlamps lit up the entire field like a prison yard.
And before Tommy could execute his signature backflip…
the gate slid shut.

He froze. His wings drooped. His heart pounded.
This was not part of the plan.
He turned, ready to sprint toward the backup exit he’d mapped out months ago — only to find the farmer standing there, arms folded, face unreadable.

Tommy gulped.
“Uh… happy Wednesday?”

The farmer didn’t respond. He just motioned to Tommy…
…and walked him back to the pen.

Tommy trembled.
His brilliant brain was glitching.
Pride was leaking out of him like air from a punctured tire.

But the farmer didn’t grab him.
Didn’t reach for a knife.
Didn’t even look angry.
He simply opened the gate… and let Tommy walk back inside.

The other turkeys stared.

Then Rufus stepped forward.
“Tommy,” he said, “you’ve been running from Thanksgiving for years.”
“Yeah… and doing a pretty good job,” Tommy muttered.
Rufus shook his head.
“No, son. You’ve been running from the truth.”

Tommy frowned. “What truth?”
“That you can outsmart a trap. You can outrun danger. You can dodge hunters.

But you cannot outrun the truth of who you really are — or the consequences of your own pride.”

Tommy swallowed hard.
“But… he didn’t take me.”
“He didn’t need to,” Rufus said softly. “Sometimes the mercy that breaks your pride saves your life more than any escape plan ever could.”

Tommy stared at the ground.
His Two-Step didn’t save him.
His ego didn’t save him.
His plans didn’t save him.

Grace did.

The farmer chose ham that year.
Not because Tommy outsmarted him…
…but because Tommy wasn’t the one the farmer had in mind at all.

Tommy spent that Thanksgiving sitting quietly beside Rufus, feeling the weight of reality:
All his brilliance
All his schemes
All his strategies
All his bragging
…none of it protected him.

What saved him was the mercy he didn’t earn and didn’t expect.

From that day on, Tommy changed.
He still danced… but not to escape.
He still strutted… but with gratitude, not arrogance.
And he still bragged… but only about how he almost died from stupidity, but grace kept him around to tell the tale.

Every turkey in Ironwood Valley remembers what Tommy says now:

“You can outsmart danger, but you can't outrun truth.”
“Pride blinds, but humility sees.”
“And mercy? Mercy saves turkeys like me.”

1 month ago | [YT] | 1

Built for Significance

🤠 The Tale of Big Jack and Little Jimmy — A Tall-Tale about Comparison

Out in the dusty old town of Red Rock Ridge lived two ranch hands:

Big Jack and Little Jimmy.

Now, Jack wasn’t just big — the man was legendary. People said he could lift a full-grown bull with one arm and rope a tornado with the other. He walked into a room and every table got nervous.

And then there was Jimmy.

Jimmy was the kind of guy who needed a step stool just to look a horse in the eye. His boots were too big, his hat was too small, and his shadow never once intimidated anybody.

Jimmy spent his whole life comparing himself to Big Jack.

If Jack hauled ten bales of hay, Jimmy tried to haul eleven and nearly snapped himself in half.
If Jack rode his horse lightning-fast across the plains, Jimmy tried too — and earned himself a one-way trip into a cactus patch.
If Jack got applause, Jimmy tried twice as hard and still tripped over his own spurs.

One day, Jimmy got fed up. He marched right up to Old Man Crawley, the wisest man in Red Rock Ridge and also the only guy whose beard had its own zip code.

Jimmy said, “I’m tired of feeling small. How do I become as big as Jack?”

Crawley leaned back, chewed on a piece of straw, and said, “Son, Jack ain’t big because of his size — he’s big because he stopped tryin’ to be anyone but Jack.”

Jimmy frowned. “That don’t help me none.”

Crawley pointed to the mountains behind them. “You see them peaks? Ain’t one trying to look like the other. They just stand tall where they’re planted.

Comparison is why you keep falling off your horse — you’re ridin’ someone else’s saddle.”

And then Crawley walked off — beard blowing in the wind like a wise tumbleweed.

That day, Jimmy stopped trying to lift bulls and chase tornadoes.

He learned he was good at fixing saddles, calming nervous horses, and shooting straighter than anyone in town.

Before long, people weren’t talking about Big Jack anymore…

They were talking about Jimmy — the guy who finally grew tall the moment he stopped comparing.

Because the truth is simple:

Comparison never makes you bigger… It just makes you forget who you already are.

🤠👇 What’s one area of your life where you’ve been “riding someone else’s saddle”… and it’s time to stand tall in who you are?

1 month ago | [YT] | 1

Built for Significance

🕵️The Man Who Hunted the Greatest Fraud Alive 🕵️

They say there was once a man named Caleb Truehart, a self-proclaimed bloodhound for honesty.

Caleb hated lies the way a cowboy hates a rattlesnake in his boot. He made it his personal mission to hunt down the Greatest Fraud Alive — the swindler behind every disappointment, every bad decision, every heartbreak.

Caleb wasn’t a detective.

He wasn’t an officer.

He worked nights unloading trucks at a hardware store and spent his days reading self-help quotes on Instagram.

But he swore he had a calling. “If I can find the greatest fraud,” Caleb told anyone foolish enough to listen, “I can stop the whole world from drowning in deception. Starting with mine.”

And so the hunt began.

Caleb followed every lead. He interrogated the internet gurus with their rented Lamborghinis and borrowed Rolexes. He questioned the dating-app Romeos with their disappearing profiles. He cornered politicians, CEOs, life coaches, pastors with suspicious smiles, and influencers who looked too airbrushed to be real.

None of them fit the profile.

Each time Caleb thought he found the culprit, something didn’t line up. As soon as he pressed them with real questions — actual truth questions — they folded like cheap umbrellas.

“Nope,” Caleb muttered, scribbling in his worn-out notebook. “Not the one.”

One night, exhausted, frustrated, and smelling like WD-40 and failure, Caleb sat alone at a diner, drowning his discouragement in burnt coffee.

That’s when an old woman slid into the booth across from him. No invitation. No hesitation. Like she’d been watching the whole time.

“You hunting the greatest fraud alive?” she asked.

Caleb blinked. “How’d you know?”

She nodded toward his notebook. “You’re lookin’ everywhere but the right place.”

Caleb leaned in. “You know who it is?”

“Oh, sweetheart…” She chuckled, shaking her head. “You’ve been sitting with him your whole life.”

And just like that — she stood up, placed a dollar on the table like she just bought him a clue, and walked out the door.

Caleb stumbled home, the woman’s words chewing on his brain like termites in a wooden porch.

“You’ve been sitting with him your whole life…”

He replayed every conversation. Every interview. Every time someone lied to him, ghosted him, tricked him, disappointed him.

And that’s when the truth sucker-punched him:

Every wrecked moment in his life had one common denominator.

Him.

He’d blamed others for the job he quit. He blamed the boss for the work ethic he never built. He blamed his ex for the communication he never learned. He blamed God for the risks he never took.

And the biggest fraud of all?

The Caleb who swore he was “almost ready.” The Caleb who said “I’ll start tomorrow.” The Caleb who pretended he wanted truth but only wanted comfort.

He realized the voice that lied to him the most was the voice in his own head — smooth, persuasive, friendly — like a con man leaning on a bar stool offering a “sure thing.”

Caleb paced his apartment, breathing heavy like he was about to throw hands with his own shadow.

He stood in front of the mirror — cracked, dusty, brutally honest — and stared himself down.

The man staring back wasn’t a monster. Just ordinary. Tired. Dodging responsibility his whole life by hunting ghosts instead of facing truth.

He exhaled slowly. “So you’re the fraud.” The reflection didn’t deny it. Frauds rarely do.

That day, Caleb wrote one last entry in his notebook:

“The greatest fraud alive isn’t out there.

He lives wherever I refuse to let God speak louder than my excuses.”

And for the first time, he stopped hunting others… and started letting God hunt him.

If you’re determined to take no one seriously but God, you eventually discover the first person you need to stop trusting so blindly…

is the one wearing your shoes.

Because the greatest fraud you’ll ever expose is the little voice in your head that tells you you're fine without ever letting God tell you the truth.

1 month ago | [YT] | 1

Built for Significance

🤠 The Legend of Later Larry 🤠

In the dusty desert town of Mule Drop, there lived a man folks called Later Larry.

Now, Larry wasn’t lazy. No, he had ambition.

Big ambition.

Ambition so big the townspeople said his ideas needed their own zip code.

Larry had dreams:

- build the fastest wagon in the West,

- open a general store,

- become town sheriff,

- maybe even run for mayor someday.



Oh Larry had plans… He just didn’t have today.

Because Larry had a habit:

Everything would get done “tomorrow.”

Need to fix his fence? Tomorrow.

Plant crops? Tomorrow.

Pay bills? Tomorrow.

Return borrowed tools? Tomorrow.

Ask Sally Mae to marry him? Definitely tomorrow.



One blazing afternoon,

Larry was sitting on his porch carving a little wooden sign that said:

“Why rush? There’s always later.”

He’d been working on that same sign for three months.



Just then, Old Sheriff Buck came rumbling down the road on horseback, dust cloud behind him, badge tarnished from too many excuses he’d heard in life.

“Larry!” Buck hollered.

“You still planning to help us round up the cattle before that storm hits?”

Larry stood up, stretched like a man who worked hard at not working hard, and said:

“Absolutely, Sheriff. I’m fired up. Motivated. Inspired. I’ll get right to it… tomorrow.”



Sheriff Buck shook his head so hard his hat almost resigned.

“Boy, one day ‘tomorrow’ ain’t gonna show up.”

But Larry just grinned and went back to carving.



That night, the storm rolled in early — a monster of a thing.

Lightning struck, thunder roared, and the cattle stampeded right through Larry’s half-built fence.

By morning, his crops were trampled, his tools were missing, his porch sign was gone, and Sally Mae had gotten engaged to a man who actually showed up on time.



Then, just when Larry thought the day couldn’t get worse, he found Sheriff Buck standing in front of what used to be Larry’s fence.

Buck pointed to the wreckage. “Larry… this is what ‘later’ looks like.”

Larry finally cracked.

He fell to his knees, grabbed a muddy fence post, and muttered: “I should’ve done it yesterday.”



Buck crouched beside him. “Son, everybody thinks procrastination just delays things. It doesn’t. It destroys things quietly while you’re promising yourself ‘later.’ And one day you wake up and realize ‘later’ stole the life you were supposed to live.”



Larry swallowed hard. From that day on, he changed.

He fixed the fence that morning.

Cleaned the field that afternoon.

Returned the borrowed tools before sunset.

And carved a new sign — finished in one sitting — that read:

“If it can be done today, I’ll do it now.”



And folks said Mule Drop never saw a man move faster.

Some even claimed Larry became so reliable he outran his own shadow — though Larry said that was just Buck exaggerating again.



But the legend lived on: Later Larry became Now-Larry the moment he realized this one truth: Procrastination doesn’t steal your time… it steals your life one delayed decision at a time.



💭 What can you do today, so you don't have to do it tomorrow?

1 month ago | [YT] | 1

Built for Significance

⏳ The Man Who Collected Tomorrows ⏳

In the lonely mountain village of Grey Hollow lived a quiet man named Evan Rune, known for one unusual obsession: He collected tomorrows.

People said he had jars full of them in his house — shelves upon shelves labeled:

- Tomorrow I’ll start the garden
- Tomorrow I’ll fix the roof
- Tomorrow I’ll ask for forgiveness
- Tomorrow I’ll write my book
- Tomorrow I’ll visit my mother
- Tomorrow I’ll become the man I’m meant to be.

Every time Evan postponed something, he’d walk to the old general store, buy an empty jar, whisper the task into it, close the lid, and place it on a shelf.
It made him feel safe. Protected. Reassured that nothing was lost — only delayed.

But people whispered behind his back: “Evan doesn’t live life… he stores it.”

One day he met Old Mara, a woman said to be older than the mountains themselves — skin like cracked earth, eyes sharp as broken glass.
Mara stopped Evan in the street and asked, “Child, why do you bury your days in glass coffins?”

Evan chuckled. “I don’t bury them. I save them. I’ll get to everything later.”

Mara leaned close and whispered:
“You’re not saving your life. You’re shelving it.”

But Evan didn’t change. Years passed.
His house filled with jars — hundreds, maybe thousands. Some dusty. Some clean. Some with labels too faded to read.

One winter, sickness swept Grey Hollow.
Evan fell ill. He lay in bed, staring at the jars around him — a lifetime of laters.

Then he heard something: Tick.
Then another. Tick. Tick.
Soon the whole house filled with ticking — a thousand tiny clocks trapped in glass.

Panicked, Evan opened a jar.
The label read: “Tomorrow I’ll apologize to my brother.” Inside was nothing but cold, empty air.
He opened another: “Tomorrow I’ll start my dream.” Empty.
Another: “Tomorrow I’ll fix things with my daughter.” Empty.
Every jar was hollow.

Then the ticking grew louder and louder until the shelves shook.
One by one the jars cracked — then shattered — thousands of tomorrows breaking open at once, filling the house with cold wind and echoing time.

When the storm settled, Old Mara stood in the doorway.
“You cannot store a tomorrow, child,” she said.
“Tomorrow must be lived — not collected.”

Evan wept. “I thought I had more time…”
Mara placed a hand on his shoulder.

“No one loses their life in a single moment.
They lose it one postponed day at a time.”

By spring, Grey Hollow held a funeral for Evan Rune.
They placed a single jar on his grave.
The label read: “The life I meant to live.”

It was empty.

The Moral:
Procrastination isn’t waiting.
It’s slowly burying your life in jars you never open.

1 month ago | [YT] | 1

Built for Significance

💭 For Every Wanna-Be Dreamer 💭

Imagine this…
You’re standing on a small stage somewhere in the middle of nowhere. A cheap spotlight buzzing overhead. A handful of strangers staring back at you.
You’re not famous.
You’re not polished.
You’re not even sure if this is going to work out.
But there’s this fire burning in your chest… a whisper that says, “You were meant for more than the life you settled for.”
That whisper is what brought you there.
That whisper is what separates dreamers from drifters.
And that whisper is the same one Kenny Chesney sings about when he says:
“Pray for every wanna-be, dreaming big and living free like me.”
Because deep down, every one of us has a stage we’re trying to get to— a life we hope we have the courage to live.
When Kenny Chesney wrote that line, he wasn’t just talking about tour buses, neon lights, and sold-out arenas. He was talking about the young man he used to be…
Traveling town to town. Sleeping in cheap motels. Playing in bars where the bartenders were louder than the crowd. Risking everything for a dream no one asked him to chase.
Because freedom doesn’t come from comfort.
Dreaming big doesn’t grow in the soil of predictability.
And living “like me” doesn’t mean being a country star—it means refusing to let fear chain you to a life that doesn’t fit your soul.
His story is the anthem of every person who’s ever looked at their life and said: “I just want to see what I’m capable of before my time here is done.”
If I could sit a child on my knee and explain this whole thing as simple as possible, I’d say: “Sweetheart, every person gets one life.
Some people play it safe…
And some people try.
Not because it’s easy—but because their heart won’t let them quit.
Dreamers aren’t better, they’re just brave enough to take the first step.”
And that’s all Kenny meant.
He was praying for the brave ones.
The ones still climbing.
The ones still becoming.
Every one of us lives with tension.
You’re torn between the life you know and the life you haven’t built yet.
Between responsibility and calling.
Between logic and that stubborn little fire in your gut.
That tension isn’t a sign something is wrong.
It’s proof your soul is waking up.
Everyone faces the same enemy; it's not failure, lack of talent, or lack of opportunity.
The real enemy?
Permission.
Most people die with dreams inside them because they’re waiting for someone to tap them on the shoulder and say, “Go now.”
That tap isn’t coming.
We must redefine what freedom is.
Freedom isn’t a vacation, a full bank account, or a flexible schedule.
Freedom is this:
Being bold enough to live the life God keeps putting on your heart.
So let me ask you something blunt:
Are you the dreamer… or the one still negotiating with fear?
Are you on the road… or still telling yourself “one day”?
If you truly believe you were made to “dream big and live free,” when does your life start reflecting it?

1 month ago | [YT] | 1