King's Corner: Looking The Part

When my dad, Mark King, was young, he didn’t believe much in staying put.

He worked at dude ranches in Wyoming, herded cattle, and rode in rodeos from the Texas/Mexico border all the way up to Canada. He loved the image and the lifestyle of the “Old West.” Wide horizons. Open country. Freedom.

But sometimes if you’re trying too hard to live up to the image, it can get the better of you.

The rodeo season roughly parallels tornado season. It begins down in Texas in late February or early March, and as the weather warms, the circuit slowly moves north until July brings the Calgary Stampede. That year Mark decided he would leave Wyoming on horseback and ride south to the Houston Rodeo to compete.

It was late winter. The ground was still stubborn in places. The wind had not yet decided to be kind.

He had a saddle already — high quality, broken in, comfortable. It had carried him through miles of work and competition. But it didn’t look impressive. It didn’t have the kind of shine that turned heads. It didn’t whisper, “Here comes someone important.”

So he traded it in for a beautiful, brand-new saddle just before setting off on his 1,500-mile ride from Cody, Wyoming, to Houston, Texas.

Some friends suggested that was like starting a long hike in brand-new boots.

Young Mark was confident. He figured he could ride 35 miles a day and make the trip in about six weeks. After all, how different could one saddle be from another? Leather was leather. Pride was lightweight. Or so he thought.

Just short of the Wyoming–Colorado border, he woke one morning to find a young tan-colored dog licking his face. He shared his breakfast without hesitation. From then on they were a team.

The dog trotted alongside the horse through long stretches of open country. At night it curled close to the fire. When Mark cooked, the dog sat patiently beside him, knowing he would share. And he always did. All his life, Mark shared his meals with his dogs. They were never just pets. They were companions.

This one was no different.

But each day that unforgiving saddle began to take its toll.

At first it was irritation. Then soreness. Then the kind of ache that doesn’t politely go away when you wake up. He shifted left. He shifted right. He stood in the stirrups longer than necessary. He developed a sudden and profound appreciation for dismounting.

Vanity became a real pain in the rear end.

For a while he told himself it was just “breaking in.” Surely the saddle would soften. Surely he would toughen. Surely pride would be rewarded with endurance. But the miles kept coming, and the saddle remained unmoved.

By the time he reached southern Colorado, he found himself doing quiet calculations in the saddle. At this rate, even if he reached Houston, he would hardly be able to ride rodeo once he arrived. The saddle that was meant to make him look like a champion was quietly disqualifying him from competing at all.

The dog, unaware of any miscalculation, kept trotting faithfully alongside.

Do you remember the moment you realized you were going to have to say goodbye to a dream?

Some dreams direct our lives. They give us focus and stretch us beyond what we thought possible. But sometimes something slips in — close enough to the dream that we don’t see the difference until it costs us.

Mark had to take a stand and make those decisions. He couldn’t sit down anyway.

This is one of those moments in life where you sit down — if you can — and have a serious talk with God.

Out on the range there is a lot of silence. And in that silence, thoughts return. The voice of pride grows quieter when pain grows louder. Somewhere between discomfort and disappointment, a man has to decide which voice he’s listening to.

In very remote stretches of the West there were railroad switching stations — lonely little booths in the middle of nowhere where a single man pulled levers to route trains one way or another.

Mark tied up the horse and the dog and went inside to speak with the switchman. The man agreed to buy the horse and saddle. He also agreed to care for the dog. And he turned a blind eye to a young cowboy hopping onto a railcar that might lead him toward Houston.

The hardest part wasn’t selling the saddle.

It wasn’t abandoning the ride.

It was walking away while that dog cried and strained at the rope, confused and desperate to follow. Mark could still hear the yelps long after the train had pulled away.

That sound stayed with him for years.

The saddle he chose to look like a cowboy had kept him from riding rodeo at all.

But what lingered wasn’t the lost competition. It was the memory of loyalty left behind because he wanted to look the part instead of live it.

Bring your dreams to God early. Let Him sort out image from calling. The right dreams will take you far — and they won’t ask you to leave what matters most tied to a post beside the tracks.

Jeff Headley is pastor of the Dayton Valley Community Church, and a storyteller who blends humor, honesty, and hope. His weekly column reflects on resilience, grace, and the surprising ways faith shows up in ordinary life.