Who Shapes Us?
If I close my eyes, I can still smell my grandfather's workshop.
There was always the scent of fresh-cut wood mixed with sawdust, machine oil, and the unmistakable smell of a project in progress. His workbenchwasn'tneat by most people's standards, butsomehow,he knew exactly where everything belonged. There were chisels worn smooth from decades of use, hand planes with polished wooden handles, coffee cans full of screws and nails, and scraps of hardwood that looked worthless to anyone else but somehow always found their way into whatever he was building next.
As a little boy, Ididn'tunderstand craftsmanship.
I just knew I liked being there.
I was fascinated by the way something rough and unfinished could slowly become something useful. A pile of lumber became a cabinet. A few pieces of oak became a table. Broken thingsweren'tthrown away; they were repaired.
Looking back now, I realize my grandfatherwasn'tjust teaching me how tobuildwith wood.
He was teaching me how to look at the world.
He believedalmost everythinghad value if you were willing to invest the time to understand it.
Ididn'tappreciate that lesson then.
Idonow.
I was born in Port Chester, New York, but when I wasyoungour family moved to Ridgefield, Connecticut. At the time, it simply felt like where I grew up. Looking back, Irecognizehow fortunate I was.
Weweren'twealthy.
Weweren'tpoor.
We were what I would call comfortably middle class.
My parents worked incredibly hard. In fact, one of my strongest memoriesisn'tof conversations around the dinner table—it's ofhow often they were already gone before I woke up and still working when I got home from school.
As a kid, youdon'talways understand sacrifice.
You just assumethat'swhat parents do.
Only later do you realize how much of their lives they quietly gave away so yours could have more opportunities thantheirsever did.
My parentsweren'tchasing luxury.
They were chasingpossibility.
Only a few generations removed from Ellis Island, they understood something Icouldn'tpossibly appreciateat the time. Every generation has an opportunity—andperhaps anobligation—to leave things a little better than they found them.
They did exactly that.
Looking back, Idon'tremember feeling like we had a lot.
I remember feeling like we had enough.
Enough to play sports.
Enough to take family vacations.
Enough to attend good schools.
Enough to explore interests that had nothing to do with survival.
Enough to simply bea kid.
Perspective hasa funny way of changing our memories.
As children, we compare ourselves to those who have more.
As adults, we often realize how incredibly blessed wealready were.
School and I never had the relationship my teachersprobably hopedfor.
I enjoyed learning.
I justwasn'talways excited about the classroom.
I found myself far more interested in people than textbooks, experiences than lectures, and conversations than memorization.
Looking back, Iprobablyfrustratedmore than one teacher.
IfI'mhonest,I frustrated myselfsometimes too.
Iwasn'tlazy.
I justhadn'tyet discovered why learning mattered.
That'san important distinction.
Curiosity and disciplinedon'talways arrive at the same time.
Sometimes onehas towait patiently for the other.
College became one of the first places where I learned that actions have consequences.
Freedom is an incredible gift.
It can also be a dangerous one.
Without the structure of home, I made plenty of decisions that, in hindsight,weren'tparticularly wise. Iwasn'ta bad kid, but I certainlywasn'tas focused as I should have been. I was enjoying life more than preparing for it.
At the time, Iprobably thoughtI wasfindingmyself.
In reality, Iwas mostly learning whatdidn'twork.
Fortunately, life is often more patient with us than we deserve.
Somewhere along the way, something began to change.
Ican'tpointtoone dramatic moment.
Therewasn'ta lightning bolt.
No grand revelation.
Just a gradual realization that the futurewasn'tgoing to build itself.
I began making better decisions.
Not perfect decisions.
Better ones.
I'veoften told my sons that success rarely comes from making spectacular decisions.
More often, it comes from making good decisions consistently over a long period of time.
Looking back,that'sexactly what began happening.
One decision at a time.
One lesson at a time.
One mistake at a time.
The young man who graduated from collegewasn'tthe same young man who arrived there- thankfully.
As I reflect on those years today, I find myself thinking about the age-old question: are we shaped more by nature or by nurture?
The older I get, the less interested I am in choosing one side of that debate.
I thinkit'sboth.
We'reborn with certain gifts, personalities, and tendencies.
Then life introduces us to people who either strengthen those gifts or challenge us to overcome our weaknesses.
Parents.
Grandparents.
Teachers.
Friends.
Coaches.
Employers.
Even the people who disappoint us.
Every one of them leaves a mark.
Some become examples we want to follow.
Others become examples we hope never to repeat.
Either way,they'reteaching us.
One of the greatest lessonsI'velearned is that learningisn'tconfined to childhood.
It never stops.
The title of this chapter is "The Learner," but I no longer believethat'ssimply the first stage of life.
It'sthe first stage becausethat'swherewe'reintroduced to learning.
Ifwe'refortunate, it becomes a lifelong habit.
Even today, I still find myself learning from clients who have built remarkable businesses, from farmers who understand patience better than most CEOs, from young advisors who see opportunities through fresh eyes, and from my own children, who continue to remind me that every generation asks different questions.
The learner never really disappears.
He simply matures.
Looking back, I alsorealizesomething else.
At the time, I thought I was preparing for school.
Preparing for college.
Preparing for a career.
Preparing for adulthood.
Iwasn't.
I was preparing to become the man I would eventually need to be.
The workbench.
My parents' sacrifices.
The victories.
The disappointments.
The friendships.
The mistakes.
Every one of them was adding another piece to the foundation.
I justcouldn'tsee it yet.
Foundations are funny that way.
Nobody admires them whilethey'rebeing poured.
They'reburied beneath the surface, quietly supporting everything that comes later.
The same is true of our lives.
Whenwe'reyoung, we spend a lot of time wondering wherewe'regoing.
Rarely do we stop to appreciate who is helping us become the person who will eventually get there.
Ifyou'rein this season today—whetheryou'resixteen, twenty-six, or even sixty and starting over—don'trush through it.
Pay attention.
Ask questions.
Listen more than you speak.
Be willing to make mistakes,andbe just as willing to learn from them.
You may not understand why this season matters.
Youprobably won't.
Very few of us do.
But somedayyou'lllook back and realize that long before you were building a career, a family, or a legacy...
Someone was quietly building you.
Reflection
Who are the people who helped shape your life before you fully understood what they were giving you?
Take a moment to thank them—whether in person, in prayer, or simply in your own heart.
Because none of us arrives where we are alone.