The Glory Run

Until Saturday, I had never run in a race. Sure I did the one mile last year, but I ran it with Mackenzie. I stayed at her pace and was more than happy when she had to walk a few times. But this year I was on my own - no kid to hide behind - no stroller to provide any excuses - just me and that. . . scared me.

I was the kid who hated running, even in elementary school. I have no natural arches in my feet and it was painful. That colored my whole perception of the running world. As far as I was concerned, it was a place I would never go.

I'm not sure if it was the challenge from my brother or the whole boot camp Lent attitude, but some how I decided that this year I would join the runners. I was not ready for the race. I was two weeks shy of completing the 5K training program and had never run that far. . . EVER. Did I say I was scared?

Lining up that brisk morning with hundreds of people looking on and 150 fellow runners I thought I had enough nervous energy to blast me through at least the first mile or so. That did not prove to be the case.

The first mile and a half was by far the most difficult. I watched the masses jump out in front of me and told myself it was okay. I knew that was going to happen. Then the 50 and 60 year olds started to pass me. Well, they are seasoned runners, I reasoned. I didn't like watching them pass me, but I knew it was inevitable. However, by the halfway point so many people had passed me that I felt as if I was running the race all by myself.

At that point I kind of settled into the idea that six weeks of training did not a runner make. I was okay with that. I was humbled by it - but okay. At mile 2 the cramp kicked in. I tried my best to run it out, but the more I ran, the harder it pierced my side. I could not make it go away. I had to stop and walk it out.

I was mad at myself and my body. I prayed to God to take it away. I tried to run again but it was no use. After what seemed like forever, but was probably less than two minutes, it finally left and I started jogging again. I was thankful that at least I wouldn't have to walk across the finish line.

When I hit the last mile, I knew I was in the home stretch. I knew I was going to make it. I was making it A LOT SLOWER than I had hoped for, but I was going to make it. After the last turn around I saw the final hill before me. I felt like I had nothing left. I knew that once I reached the top of that hill that the finish line would be in view as would the crowds of people waiting there. I had to come over that hill running (well, okay, jogging...okay, just not walking).

When I finally came over that hill and saw the balloons at the finish line, I was relieved. I wish I had more in me to pick up the pace, but I was just happy to still be moving. I tried to put on a brave face as I trotted along.

It was at that moment that I saw something that almost broke my heart. Coming out of the crowd and running towards me was my brother, who had long since crossed the finish line. I don’t think I've ever been happier to see him. He joined me for those last few minutes, encouraging me and calling for me to push a little harder. I don't know how but I finished much faster than I started and I was so grateful for my own cheerleader.

The small picture Saturday was a little disappointment that I had to walk. A little embarrassment at how long it took me (still don't know my time and probably will not be posting that for the world to see). I felt as if I had let everyone down.

Later that afternoon, while recounting the race to my mom, she reminded me of my own pep talk. "Go back and read your blog," she encouraged. "You should be really proud of yourself. You have never been a runner," she reminded me, "and you've only been running for six weeks. You've really come a long way."

She was right. Once I let go of my foolish pride, I began to see a much better picture. Six weeks ago I couldn't run a quarter of a mile without stopping. I mean, I started by running for 2 minutes and walking for 5. Saturday I ran a 5K and only had to stop once. I did something I never thought I would want to do, let alone be capable of doing. For me, no matter my time or position in the race, it was a personal best. Isn't that what I set out to do in the first place?

Oh so many teaching points in this but suffice it to say that our journeys towards Heaven are all very personal. Sometimes we get so caught up in our imperfections and what others around us are doing that we fail to see the progress we're making along the way. On that way, we're each asked to carry our own crosses and nothing but God can make them go away. However, He never leaves us - never gives us so much that we can't reach that final destination. And, when we think we can't do any more, he sends someone to help us - someone who allows us to grow and soar farther than we ever could on our own.

In the end, we should all keep that finish line in our minds. We should all be focused on reaching that final goal. However, we shouldn't forget that there is joy in the journey. There is so much to learn along the way. In the end all we can really do is our very best, and luckily for us, that's all God ever asks.