Carry That Bull

There’s an old story of an ancient Greek wrestler called Milo of Croton:

On the day a calf was born, Milo picked it up and carried it some distance. The calf was weak and thin. Its long legs wobbled, and its small head bobbed up and down as the wrestler walked across the fields.

The following day, Milo returned to pick up the baby animal and carry it the same distance. He repeated this day after day, week after week. Slowly, the calf grew. After some time, it was a young bull. Slabs of muscle covered its hindquarters, and its powerful shoulders were nearly as tall as the wrestler himself. Milo grew as well. He stayed consistent, and as the animal got heavier, he got stronger. He would sweat beneath the hot Greek sun as he made his burdened rounds.

I’m certain some of his countrymen admired his resolve, while others thought him foolish for his creative form of torture. I can only imagine the chatter that spread through the town, ‘He’s at it again, gents. I wonder when he'll realize that cows can walk on their own.’

By the end of his training, Milo was able to hoist a fully grown bull onto his shoulders and carry it across the fields. This feat of strength was only possible because of the sweat, blood, and years of work he put in. He could not pay anyone to lug that bull around for him. He could not quit or underfeed the animal and still expect the same results.

It was truly the journey that created the destination, and there was no other path to get there.

I find that in our day and age, there are so many shortcuts promising results that can only be achieved through hard work and struggle.

While Milo stumbles on the uneven terrain of a field, we walk on a paved road. As the sun mercilessly beats down on Milo, we turn up our air conditioning. Milo carries the bull on his own two shoulders, and we just buy a cart, put the bull in it, and pay someone to pull it.

Both Milo and we get the bull to the other side of the field, but after years of doing this, who has legs as thick as tree trunks and shoulders like mountains? Certainly not us.

Our journey was not the same, and we did not reach the same destination.

Earlier today, I was putting an ax to the last few logs of a big ol’ tree as I thought about this story of Milo. I remembered an old saying that goes, ‘Chop your own wood, and it will warm you twice.’

I could easily pay someone to chop my firewood. It would warm my house just the same as if I did it myself. But what would I be missing out on by doing this? I would not smell the aroma of freshly split timber. My hands would not grow calloused and strong from tossing the lumber in a pile. My back and shoulders would remain weak if I did not swing that maul for hours. The sweat would not drip, and my muscles would not ache as I lie in bed at night.

No, this is something I would do myself. The purpose of my chopping was to have firewood, but there was so much more to gain from the process than merely a warm house.

There is wisdom in Milo’s training. All too often, we try to make our journey as easy as possible, expecting to still arrive at the same place.

This is a grave mistake, for it is the journey that creates the destination. What we do molds us. If we do hard things, we are forged into stronger men and women.

Now, go venture off the paved road and carry that bull!