Every year my nephew, Lemuel, calls with the same invitation.
“Uncle Michael, are you coming to Seattle for the stair climb?”
I know exactly what he’s talking about.
Each spring, hundreds of people gather at Seattle’s Columbia Center—the tallest building in the city—to climb all 72 stories. It’s a fundraiser for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, raising money to fight leukemia and other blood cancers.
For our family, it’s much more than a fundraiser.
My brother Jeffrey died from leukemia.
His death left a hole in our family that never completely healed. In his memory, Lemuel faithfully returns each year and invites family members to join him. It’s his way of remembering his uncle while helping other families facing the same battle.
This year, when the invitation came, I hesitated.
Not because I didn’t want to support the cause.
Not because I didn’t want to spend time with family.
I hesitated because I wasn’t sure I could make the climb.
In years past, I had prepared. I’d climbed stairs in office buildings, worked my legs, and made sure I was ready. This year was different. Although I still run several miles three mornings a week and consider myself to be in pretty good shape, running on flat ground is a lot different than climbing seventy-two flights of stairs.
The thought crossed my mind.
Maybe I should just make a donation.
I could still fly to Seattle, cheer everyone on, and meet Lemuel and his daughter, Mya, after they finished. Surely writing a check would be enough.
But the more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable I became.
Sometimes doing enough isn’t the same as doing your best.
The money we raise is important. Every dollar helps fund research and provides hope for families whose lives have been turned upside down by blood cancer. But the climb represents something else, too. It’s about staying healthy enough to participate in life. It’s about choosing activity over excuses. It’s about family. And it’s about honoring my brother Jeffrey in a way that feels personal.
So I bought my plane ticket.
The next morning, three generations of our family stood outside Columbia Center. There was my nephew, Lemuel. There was his daughter, Mya. And there was me. Three generations. One family. One purpose.
When the signal was given, we started climbing.
Well…they started climbing.
I started climbing too, but it didn’t take long before Lemuel and Mya disappeared around the next landing. Youth has a way of making seventy-two stories look easy. I climbed at a pace better suited for someone who’s collected a few birthdays. By the tenth floor, I was breathing hard. By the twentieth, I was stopping every few flights to catch my breath.
I won’t pretend it was easy. It wasn’t. More than once I wondered if I had made a mistake.
Then something interesting happened.
Every time I stopped for a short rest, I found I could climb a little farther.
One more flight.
Then another.
Then another.
I quit thinking about seventy-two stories.
Instead, I concentrated on the next set of steps.
Life works that way, doesn’t it?
Most of our biggest challenges are too overwhelming if we try to tackle them all at once. But almost anything becomes possible when we simply focus on taking one more step.
Along the way, I noticed a group of visitors who had chosen to ride the elevator to the observation deck.
Unfortunately, the elevator wasn’t cooperating.
They were stuck.
They couldn’t enjoy the view because they had depended entirely on the easy way up.
That little scene stayed with me.
How often do we look for elevators in our own lives?
The shortcut.
The easier decision.
The path requiring the least effort.
There’s nothing wrong with elevators—until they stop working.
Character, however, is built on stairways.
Eventually I reached the seventy-second floor.
Lemuel and Mya had finished in about sixteen minutes.
It took me almost thirty.
Guess what?
We all arrived at the same place.
As we stood together overlooking Seattle, I realized the view wasn’t the greatest reward.
The greatest reward was spending the morning with my nephew and great-niece.
The greatest reward was honoring my brother Jeffrey.
The greatest reward was discovering that at seventy-two years old, I was still capable of doing hard things.
I may not be the fastest anymore.
I may need a few more rest stops than I once did.
But I can still climb.
As I’ve thought about that day, I’ve realized that life rarely asks us to sprint.
More often, it simply asks us not to quit.
One step.
One challenge.
One act of courage.
One day at a time.
That’s enough.
Because in the end, success isn’t measured by how quickly we reach the top.
It’s measured by whether we were willing to begin the climb in the first place.
A Question to Consider
What staircase have you been avoiding because it looked too difficult—and what might happen if you simply took the first step today?