I’ll never forget the first time I ran six consecutive miles. I was 14 and I’d been running a three-mile loop all summerlong, several times a week. One morning I headed out to the park across my street, and I broke into a run. The sky was a steely grey and before long sheets of warm rain began to drench my body so that I could no longer tell what was my sweat and what was water from above. Because I’d suspected rain, I’d left my super-cool. banana-yellow Walkman at home (those of you in the generation of AirPods probably have no idea what I’m talking about) and so I was alone with my thoughts and was free to focus on the quickening beat of my heart, the rhythm of my legs, and the evidence that I was pushing myself physically.
Once I made it around the first loop, I decided to keep going. When I finished six miles, I felt like I could go for another ten. I was in awe of my strength and how far my legs had taken me. I was grateful for the gift of running and wanted to run happy for the rest of my life.
Sadly, that didn’t end up happening. Not long after I started to turn running into a weapon against myself and my body. I no longer ran or exercised from a place of joy or gratitude or because I wanted to honor God for the gift of my body. I exercised only because I wanted to be thin. I didn’t seek to break out a sweat as a way to take care of my body but to punish it. If I ate what I considered was too much or “bad” food, I’d push myself harder and longer. I joined the track team, but I ran from a place of fear. Fear of failure, of not being good enough, fast enough, and thin enough. I injured my foot, but I ignored the crippling pain. I pressed on until my coach saw my foot was marbled with bruises when I took of my racing spikes and socks one day. He told me I could no longer practice with the team until I saw a doctor. Turns out, I’d been running for weeks with a stress fracture.
I eventually returned to running, and I was so grateful to be back out there that I didn’t let it become another barometer of my self-worth or a form of self-flagellation. I even ran my first marathon, paying no attention to my pace, and crossing the finish line with tired legs but also a big grin creased across my face.
Just recently, as a middle-aged mom of five I made the crazy decision to train for another marathon. At first my goal was to qualify for Boston but when a chronic hamstring injury reared its ugly head once again, I had to readjust my training as well as my expectations. At first, I felt broken. I was angry at my body for failing me. My track coach had once told me I had talent and potential, but an eating disorder kept me from reaching it.
As a young woman, I had baby after baby, and my nocturnal nurslings made waking up early to run seem next-to-impossible. We also lived in an area where it wouldn’t be safe for a woman to run alone in the dark. I began to dwell on the past, the what-ifs – what if I’d trained smarter and harder when I was still young and my hamstrings were healthy? I also found myself getting angry at all the running moms on Instagram who seemed to be able to effortlessly train without being sidelined by injury all while doing the mom thing. I wallowed and wailed and pretty much drove my family crazy.
One day my wise-beyond-her-years teenager asked me, “Why do you want to qualify for Boston so badly?”
A pregnant pause wedged its way between us. Finally, I said, “Because I know I can or at least that I could of when I was in my prime.”
“So run knowing you could, but also run knowing that we could care less if you run the Boston Marathon or not,” she said.
Inspired by my sage child, I changed the way I approached my running. Each morning I’d wake up and tell myself, “You get to do this!” instead of “You have to do this if you want to be able to run a fast marathon.” I reminded myself that running was a part of my life, but it wasn’t all my life and that people who loved me the most could care less about my running pace or the miles in my training log. I decided, too, I would carry people’s prayers and intentions along with me for the 26.2 miles. I would offer up my discomfort when the race grew challenging.
{If you have an intention I might pray for, please share it with me by emailing marathonprayerrequests@gmail.com before December 6th.}
I also made peace with the uncertainty of what the future might hold. Maybe I’d get to run another marathon; I’d have to see how my hamstrings were doing and how I felt. Maybe I’d run a fast marathon and even qualify for Boston. Maybe not. But no matter what, I made it my goal to run happy and to do it for as long as my body would allow me. I knew I could push through the pain and discomfort and hit faster paces and stick to a strict training plan with evangelical fervor, but at what cost? Did I want to run myself into the ground and really end up too broken to run in older age? Or did I want to hit the pavement slowly, steadily for the rest of my life? Did I want running to be a proving ground – yet another measure of my worth as the number on the scale had once been – or did I want running to be a playground – a source of joy, an outlet, a time to connect with good friends, and a hymn of thanks to the God who had created me?
Philippians 3:13 says, “I have not achieved it, but I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize.”
I may never achieve those running goals I’ve jotted down in my Believe Journal, but I’m making peace with that and I will keep pressing on – just with a different goal in mind.
Back in October I had an 18-mile training run on my calendar the same day our local half marathon is held, so I decided to run five miles prior to the race and the register for the half as a training run. I had to tell myself over and over that this was a fun, training run and not a race. I ended up running with a dear friend for the entire way. At one point, she was feeling tired and encouraged me to keep on going, but I told her this wasn’t about me and I wanted to stick with her and enjoy the experience.
When the finish line was drawing closer, I said, “Let’s do the cheesy thing and hold hands while crossing the finish line together.” She enthusiastically agreed.
And so we did.
I ended up finishing the half nearly 20 minutes slower than the last time I ran it, but you know what? I was so much happier. I was at a better place physically, spiritually, and emotionally. I ran the race that was meant for me and made the experience more about encouraging someone else than trying to prove something about myself.
Once upon a time, I would too often view running only as a means of self-accomplishment (or when I was a teen, a form of self-punishment) rather than a way to grow in virtue. My frustrating hamstring injuries are certainly helping to humble me. Running has taught me many things over the years: patience, gratitude, and respect for this temple of mine. Perhaps the whole reason God brought running into my life was not to win or qualify for any earthly race, but to learn about humility, accepting my limitations, and celebrating others’ podium-climbing so that I can, with God’s grace, one day cross the finish line and win the heavenly prize.
Ultimately, I’m learning mile by mile that with God, no one is first or last. We are all His beloved and if I live and run like I believe that truth, then I’ll have nothing to lose but everything to gain.
***A version of this reflection originally appeared in a wonderful running program from Soul Strength Sisters called So As To Win.
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