I was jogging with my dog as I am very much wont to do.

As I looked back over the broad expanse of the Beaverlodge Valley where we live, I saw the Rocky Mountains in the distance. Probably one hundred miles distant, they were purple in the morning light. And the early sun was sending slashes of gold onto the purple peaks.

The view was extravagant. Splendorous.

I had always been fascinated by those snowy peaks. And never had I seen them so magnificent. I was captivated again by those mountains that had always pulled my eyes to the southwest.

In my excitement I looked around for someone to share the view - someone to see what I had never seen before.

There was only my dog. Part Shelty they say. But not a very big part.

Impulsively I said. "Look, Abby! Look!"

He caught my excitement, canine that he was. His tail came up. His ears flicked forward. His black eyes seemed to sparkle with excitement. And the sensitive nose sampled the air.

He looked all around. Everywhere. Certain that a bird or rabbit was near. Certain that he was on the brink of some, stupendous dog-adventure.

The more I urged him to look at the mountains, the more certain he became that excitement was no more than fifty feet away.

Finally I realized that he would never see those mountains, ever, even though I am quite certain his eyesight was just fine.

A dog just does not have eyes for mountain splendors. He much prefers the sassy snarl of the neighbor's cat.

I realized then that I had the opening paragraphs for this book about Christian discernment, for it is, above all. about the Christian's ability to see farther, to see more than ordinary people do.

Chapter 2