Today, I found myself speaking with my oldest son. We were discussing goal setting and execution. As we talked, I began to think about the things that I have been able to accomplish. My entire life has been amazing. That is not to say I haven’t had failures. I have had heartbreak, been betrayed, and lost things I felt were valuable. But I can say, I regret nothing. Everything I am, I owe to God. My faith precedes me.

As we were having this conversation, I tried to explain the type of faith you need to accomplish what many would think impossible.

You see, to me, faith is running without a map. You have a destination, but you don’t know exactly how you are going to get there. You’ve been given this destination. You know it’s been given to you because it’s all you can think about. As a matter of fact, you can’t see the destination, but you have evidence that it’s there. There’s a small glimmer of light that guides you—a light that shines in the darkness. You don’t know what ground you have to cover between you and the light, but you know you have to get there. So you take off running. It’s the substantive hope that drives you.

So you run. And you run. You run until you see a wall, and that small glimmer of light is out of view. You know it’s still there, but you can’t seem to see it because the faster you run, the larger the wall becomes.

Next, you do what any sane person does: You stop. You don’t want to run headfirst into the wall.

The thought of the eventual pain and hurt slows your ability to keep moving forward. You know what it’s like to hit a wall. You’ve smashed into a wall before, you’ve lost sight of where you were headed, and you remember how bad you felt. So, you think twice before running headfirst into this enormous slab of rock. You almost turn around to go back where you came from. But then you remember how you felt the last time you gave up, and that pain hurt worse than hitting the wall.

So you step back, and say, “Let me be smart. Let me look for a door.” You search all over. You look high. You look low. You try to see if you can get around it. But all you find in the middle of this monstrosity are some words printed at heart level. They say: “Keep Running.”

Run where? There is nowhere to go. There is no door. There is nowhere to go but back, but you ain’t going back. Not this time.

You walk back a few steps, and then you run. You run just as hard as you did before. And as you get closer to the wall, you feel a sense of concern, but you fight through it because whatever is on the other side of that wall has been pulling at you most of your life.

So you run, until you get close enough to see the instructions again, but this time you don’t stop—you keep running. Full speed ahead. And suddenly, the wall lifts, and you continue under it. You made it to the other side, with no door, no shortcut.

Because the wall was the door.

“But without faith it is impossible to please God.” — Hebrews 11:6

Go. Run.