Aim Your Edge: Purpose in Practice (Ep:10)

 This episode of Man in Progress: Forging Manhood turns your sharpened edge toward purpose. It opens with the story of a bottle of water priced at a few cents in a grocery store and at several dollars on a plane and asks what happens once you recognize your own worth. We explore purpose as the meeting point between your gifts and the world’s needs, and we examine why misdirected energy leaves you tired and frustrated. Through personal reflections on chasing recognition and through the examples of people like William Marshal and Joan of Arc, who chose service over glory, we show how direction makes the cut. We talk about aligning your skills with local needs, building daily rituals inspired by St Benedict’s rhythms and St Francis’s deliberate simplicity, and pouring your energy where it truly counts. By the end you’ll learn how to set a target for your days, channel your strength through meaningful systems, and measure your worth by alignment rather than applause. If you’ve ever felt like you’re swinging at nothing or longed to turn your self‑worth into impact, this episode invites you into the forge to find your aim. 

Transcript

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Welcome to Man in Progress, Forging Manhood. I'm Travis Murray, values coach, and your guide to building a life driven by real values. Each week we explore what it means to be a man today. Talk about and to thinkers and doers who've been through it, and give you steps to show up better for yourself and those you love. If you're ready to forge your own path, you're in the right place. Let's get to it. A bow pulls tight. Your fingers press into the string. Your shoulder muscles are fire. Every sinew says let go. But there's no target. So the arrow would fly wild. It would spin, wobble, then clatter onto stone. The energy was real. The effort was real. The damage would be real too. Strength without aim is force wasted. In a forge, a hammer that hits without purpose bends steel in wrong directions. In a life, work without aim bends men the same way. A drawn bow is nothing without a target. Last episode, we held up our worth to the light. We saw that a bottle of water can cost fifty cents at a grocery store or six dollars on a plane. Not because the water changes, but because the context does. We learn to move the shelves that value us and to stop pouring ourselves into sands that don't. Now we ask the next question. Once you know you're carrying value, what do you do with it? A sharp sword still needs a target. A strong arm still needs direction. A man can wake at dawn, follow every ritual, sharpen his tools, and still feel empty if he spends his days swinging at nothing. Purpose is the target your edge was forged for. It isn't a job title or a paycheck. It's the intersection of your skills and the world's needs. It's the reason you feel alive when you serve in one way and numb when you serve in another. Men are wired to build, to defend, to cultivate. When we drift into busyness without purpose, we become like arrows shot at walls. We leave dents and bruises but no meaningful cuts. This episode is about aiming our strength. We'll explore why purpose matters more than status, how misdirected effort drains us, and how to turn our tools into impact. We'll watch William Marshall, a knight who aimed his blade at loyalty and peace, and Joan of Arc, a young woman who aimed her courage at freedom. Their aim made their edges unforgettable. We'll finish with practical ways to align your gifts with needs, how to choose a target for your day, how to stop scattering your energy, how to build systems that channel your edge. The Forge doesn't just make sharp things, it makes useful things. Let's make your life one of them. Purpose turns energy into meaning. Imagine a blacksmith spending hours heating and hammering steel, but never deciding if the piece will be a sword, a plough, or a horseshoe. He might end up with a twisted shape that pleases no one and serves nothing. We do this with our days. We fill calendars. We answer emails, we grind. But if we don't aim, we end up with blunt hours and bent hearts. We ask, why am I so tired? Why does nothing feel finished? The answer is often simple. We forgot who or what we were making this for. History gives us a better model. William Marshall, born the fourth son of a minor noble, should have lived in obscurity, but he aimed his life at service. As a young knight, he unhorsed Prince Richard, the future Lionheart, in a tournament but spared his life, showing restraint and loyalty. Later, when civil war erupted and barons rebelled against King John, William stayed loyal. He became regent for the boy King Henry III, reissued the Magna Carta to restore peace, and at age seventy, led troops to lift the siege of Lincoln and save a kingdom. He wasn't the loudest or most flamboyant knight. He was steady, disciplined, always aiming his blade toward peace and stability. His purpose wasn't glory, it was service. Because of that, he's remembered as the greatest knight and the savior of England. Purpose also matters because it sustains us through fatigue. When you know your why, you can withstand more heat. William took blows on tournament fields and battlefields. He served five kings and navigated treacherous politics. He could have abandoned King John, who was unpopular. He could have aimed at personal wealth and switched sides, but he chose to uphold his oath. Purpose kept him steady when profit would have made him slippery. What does that mean for you? It means ask yourself, who am I serving with my edge? Whose problem am I solving? If your answer is no one, then no wonder the days feel empty. Aim gives weight to work. It turns chores into service. When you know your purpose, even repetition feels rich. Benedictine monks prayed and worked at set hours. Their chores, baking bread, copying manuscripts, weren't glamorous, but they were purposeful. They knew each loaf fed someone, each page preserved wisdom. Without purpose, labor feels like punishment. Without it, labor feels like offering. Start by naming two things that matter more than your convenience. Maybe it's your kids, maybe it's restoring dignity in your marriage, maybe it's guiding young men who don't have fathers. Then ask, how do my tools serve those targets? You don't need to save a kingdom to feel purposeful. You just need to aim your strength at something other than yourself. Aim gives weight to work. We've all misfired. We've all aimed at the wrong target or drawn our bow only to release it into empty air. It happens when we chase someone else's approval, when we fight battles that aren't ours, or when we confuse activity with accomplishment. Misplaced aims drain our energy and fill us with resentment. For years I shot my arrows at recognition. I worked late for a boss who never saw me. I poured my creativity into reports that were skimmed and shelved. I held my breath waiting for applause that never came. The harder I aimed at those things, the more my arm trembled. At home, I'd have no patience left for people who actually needed me. My aim was off. I wasn't serving a purpose. I was feeding an ego. Eventually I realized my exhaustion wasn't from work alone. It was from aiming at the wrong mark. When I started writing down what I wanted to do with the podcast that I'm building now, how I wanted to serve other men who grew up like me or are growing up like I did, with no answers, with no aim, no direction, everything kind of flowed. It felt right. I was drawing that bow back so easily and letting loose arrows and hitting the target every time. History shows this too. Many knights of William Marshall's time chased plunder and personal fame. They switched loyalties for gold. They wielded their swords for whoever paid the most. They died nameless. Their aim was forgotten. Contrast this with Joan of Arc. At seventeen, she felt called to save France. Voices of saints, she said, told her to take up arms. She convinced a reluctant prince to give her soldiers. She rode into Orleans, carrying food and supplies, and inspired defenders who were starving. When an arrow pierced her shoulder, she pulled it out and returned to battle. She led charge after charge, breaking the siege and turning the tide of the Hundred Years War. She didn't aim for glory. She aimed for liberation. When Charles was crowned king at Reims, she knelt beside him, content with her role. Even after being captured and put to death at nineteen, her purposeful aim shook empires and still inspires centuries later. Misplaced aims often come from fear or insecurity. We chase money because we fear scarcity. We chase approval because we fear rejection. We chase busyness because we fear sitting still with ourselves. Purposeful aim comes from love. Love of a cause, love of people, love of God. Love is quieter than fear. Fear yells more. Love whispers this. Joan was terrified, but love of France steadied her hand. William could have been terrified of losing status, but love of his oath kept him true. So ask yourself, where am I currently spending energy without meaning? Maybe you're pouring hours into scrolling because you're bored. That's an arrow at nothing. Maybe you're arguing about politics with strangers online. That's aiming at moving targets that won't be swayed. Maybe you're chasing a promotion at a company whose mission you don't believe in. That's aiming at a prize that won't satisfy. Identify one misplacement and intentionally stop drawing there. It will feel weird. It will free you. Knowing your purpose and avoiding misplaced aim are only parts of the work. You also need to align your tools with real needs. A sharp sword lying on a table serves no one. A skilled carpenter who never meets wood builds nothing. Impact happens when your skill meets someone's scarcity. Impact happens when you draw on what you forge and release it toward a hunger in the world. How do you find that hunger? Start local. Who near you is lacking something you carry? If you're a good listener, there's a teenager who needs an ear. If you can fix things, there's an elderly neighbor whose door squeaks. If you can cook, there's a single dad who's eating out of boxes. Aligning your tool means paying attention to the world's edges. In William Marshall's time, there are edges everywhere. Rebellious barons, a child king, afraid peace. William didn't go on a quest to find a purpose. He responded to the needs in front of him. He escorted Henry Second's queen safely when rebellion threatened her. He mentioned the young King Henry III and defended his crown. He did what he could, where he was with what he had. That's impact. Joan saw hunger too. She saw a starving city. She brought food and hope. She didn't start by giving speeches about freedom. She started by getting supplies past enemy lines. Then she put on armor and showed up. She drew her bow when it was time and put it down when it was done. Her aim met need. Impact also requires timing. There are seasons to aim and seasons to rest. There are times to pour and times to refill. William fought well into his seventies, but he didn't swing his sword every day. He negotiated, he reassured charters, he married and raised a family, he matched his tool to the moment. You don't need to be on all the time. Your impact is greater when you rest between aims. And remember, a bow left drawn will warp, unstring it between uses. Impact also requires humility. You don't always know the best target. Ask the people you aim to serve. Ask your wife what she needs more, your advice or your presence. Ask your son if he wants help with his project or just for you to watch him try. Ask your coworker if they need you to take over or just support from the side. Listen before you draw. Finally, impact requires courage. You might fear you're not qualified. Joan had never fought. William was the fourth son. Purpose gives courage because it points beyond self. Aim your edge at something bigger and you'll find bravery you didn't know you had. To practice, choose one tool you have. Identify one person or place that needs it. Plan on deliberate aim this week. Maybe it's spending two hours fixing something for someone. Maybe it's tutoring a kid. Maybe it's writing a note to someone who's sick. Then pick a day and do it. Afterwards, notice how you feel. That feeling is impact. Write it down. Let it remind you that your edge is useful when it meets a need. Impact is skill plus need. Tools dull if you leave them out in the rain. Value fades if you don't tend it. Rituals protect what you forged. Saint Benedict knew this. In his rule he wrote Idleness is the enemy of the soul, and ordered that monks be occupied at certain times in manual labor and at fixed hours for sacred reading. He instructed them to work until about the fourth hour, then read until the sixth, then rest. He warned against gossip and laziness and insisted that all things be done with moderation. Even the weak were given tasks suited to their strength, so they wouldn't be idle. His rituals weren't cages, they were channels. They kept the monk's value flowing toward God and neighbor. What are your bells? You don't need chimes or Latin chants. You need a simple frame to remind you of your worth and to pull you back when you drift. In the morning, before you touch your phone, touch your purpose. Write one sentence about who you are serving today. I will aim my patience at my child during homework. I will pour my calm into my team's meeting. Speak it out loud. It sets your posture like a smith setting the angle of his file. In the midday, pause, place a hand on your chest, and ask, have I aimed true so far? If yes, breathe gratitude. If no, breathe forgiveness, then realign. The rule has rest built in. Your ritual should too. Don't run without stopping, rest sharpens you. In the evening, close with an audit and blessing. Ask, where did I pour where it mattered? Where did I spill? Write down one place you hit your mark and one place you missed. Then choose one thing you'll aim for tomorrow. End by thanking your body for its work. Put your phone away, let your eyes meet darkness. Benedict's monks ended their day in silence, preserving the night for renewal. Your day deserves a finish line. Rituals also include nourishment. Eat before big conversations. Thirst and hunger distraught value. A depleted body sells itself cheap. Benedict made sure monks ate and rested. Don't romanticize deprivation. Ritual is not self punishment, it's a self maintenance. It keeps your edge where it belongs, ready, balanced, not brittle. Like Benedict's rule, let your rhythms weave work. Reading, rest, and prayer. They are the tendons that hold your purpose to your bones. Value is meant to flow. A bottle of water hidden in your pack can't quench anyone's thirst. You have to pour, but pour with discernment. Saint Francis of Assisi gives us a startling picture of deliberate poor. Born into wealth, he renounced his father's riches. One account says he handed his purse back, then stripped off his expensive clothes, laid them at his father's feet, and walked away naked. He declared himself wedded to lady poverty, gave up possessions, and devoted himself to serving the poor. He cared for lepers, fed and bathed them, rebuilt a ruined church with his own hands, and scrounged vegetables from the trash bins rather than asking for money. His joy and freedom drew men after him, but the world often forgets the cost. His happiness was possible only because he accepted real poverty. Rags, cold, hunger, pus-filled sores. He aimed his life at service and found abundance and emptiness. He poured where no one else would, and his pour has been filling cups for eight centuries. Pouring where it counts begins with choosing who and what you serve. Aim at people and projects that multiply your gift. Mentorship is a high value pour. Passing on your craft to a younger man doubles your impact. Teaching your child to split kindling rather than doing it yourself turns a chore into legacy. Francis attracted followers by pouring his joy and vulnerability openly. His companions joined him in poverty. Your pour can attract partners too. A husband who consistently brings humor to the dinner table invites the whole family to lighten. A manager who listens before he speaks trains a team in empathy. Pour into systems, not just moments. Build rituals at home that foster safety, like Saturday breakfast chats. Create a process and work that elevates quiet voices. Establish a monthly gathering with friends where vulnerability is expected. Systems hold water even when you're not there. Francis built the Order of the Friars, Minor, and insisted they own no property so that their preaching stayed pure. He created a container for his poor. You can too. Pour into yourself. This isn't selfish. It's stewardship. Sharpen your skills, feed your soul, rest. Francis's poverty made room for joy. Your rest makes room for purpose. You cannot pour from the empty vessel. When your work drains you, step back and refill your silence. Reading or a run. Say no to requests that leak your energy. A leak is any place where you pour and nothing grows. Arguments that never resolve, relationships that only take tasks that don't align with your aim. Plug the leaks with boundaries. Put your phone on airplane mode at dinner. Let go of trying to convince the unconvincible. Francis refused to pour into wealth because he knew it would leak his soul. Find your leaks, seal them. Pour into the edges. If your comfort circle is full, but there are deserts just outside it, step out. Volunteer in a neighborhood where you're uncomfortable. Join a support group you've avoided. Francis kissed lepers when everyone else recoiled. Your leap may be smaller, but just as brave. Pour where it counts, and watch your value reflect back in the eyes hungry for hope. How do you know if you're aiming well, pouring wisely, valuing yourself accurately? There is no receipt for human worth, yet there are indicators. When you hit your mark, you feel grounded rather than frantic. Work feels heavy and meaningful. Not busy and brittle. Conversations leave you steady, not scattered. You sense a quiet rightness, not pride, but alignment. When your price is wrong, you feel resentment. You count hours and dollars because it feels like an unfair trade. You feel exhausted but underseen. That's your soul hinting that you're selling yourself at the wrong stall. One measure is to the ratio of energy to impact. Track where your effort goes and what it produces. If you're pouring hours into doom scrolling and leaving dinner with your kids undone, the ratio is broken. If you're spending nights perfecting spreadsheets that no one else reads, ask why. Impact isn't always immediate. It can be planting seeds that sprout later. But if nothing ever grows where you water, move. Remember, a bottle sold on a plane has impact. The same bottle forgotten on a shelf doesn't. Move your shelf or move your bottle. Another measure is feedback from trusted witnesses. Ask your spouse or a friend, where do you see me come alive? Where do you see me dim? Ask, what gift do you think I'm underusing? Listen without defensiveness. Benedictine monks lived under an abbot who corrected idleness and gossip. He needed correction too. Invite someone to walk through your forge and point out tools gathering dust. A third measure is your body. It tells the truth. Pay attention to your chest at the end of the week. Is it light? Then you're likely aligned. Is it tight? Then something's off. Tracking your physical cues is like listening to the hiss of steel in water. It tells you if the tamper is right. Finally, measure by legacy. Imagine your future self looking back. Would he be grateful you aimed where you did? Would he thank you for pouring into your daughter's science project instead of watching another game? Would he bless you for setting boundaries with your phone? Picture your grandson reading your journal. Would he see a man who chose his shelf and his purpose? Measurement isn't about judgment, it's about alignment. It keeps you from drifting into shelves where you never belong. Worth is alignment, not applause. You have been in the forge long enough to know your worth. You have seen yourself like water, same substance, different price. You have learned to hone, strobe, and grip. You have felt the power of small choices and the importance of context. Now you know that aiming matters. Purpose makes your edge useful. Misplaced aim drains you. Ritual keeps you sharp. Pouring wisely waters deserts. Measuring without price tags keeps you honest. This is not theory, it is practice. It is the work of a lifetime. Tonight, pick up your hammer one more time. Write down one purpose that makes your heart beat slower and your shoulders drop. Choose one ritual to protect that purpose. Select one person or place to pour into this week. Identify one leak and plug it. Ask one trusted witness for feedback. This isn't busy work. This is the forge that's meant to make your arrows. Ask yourself, would the younger you be proud of the target you're aiming at today? Would he see a man swinging his hammer at walls or carving something beautiful? Would he hear your silence and know its peace, not emptiness? Remember William Marshall, who held his sword for loyalty and peace. Remember Joan of Arc, who aimed her courage at freedom and despite fear. Remember Saint Francis, who found joy by pouring into the poor. Remember Saint Benedict, who built a rhythm that kept purpose alive. Their aim was different, but their resolve was the same to serve something beyond themselves. You are not broken because you haven't found your aim yet. You are a man in progress. Keep forging.