Running My Race

My feet hit the pavement marking each step in my jog. It was a slow cadence, not much faster than a power walk, but it was forward motion. I ran past three houses to reach the end of my street and already had that “alright, this is enough” feeling. I told myself to hush and kept moving, continuing my plodding pace forward. The goal was 2.5 miles, so no need to rush out of the gate. Were I to manage it without walking, it would be the longest consecutive run I’d done in years—though my slow pace would define it as a jog. Uptempo pop music played in my ears, and I moved forward, mind wandering, bouncing around like a ping pong ball without settling on any one thing. Every so often, I’d look down at my watch to check my distance, mentally calculating how much further I had to go. I paid little attention to the time because it didn’t matter, I was going to finish the run whether it took me 25 minutes or an hour– all that mattered was the slow ticking by of each tenth of a mile.

Frustration was a frequent companion during my run. I thought of how slow my time would look compared to the majority of my gym members. I remembered the days when running was enjoyable and not a slow slog through the mud— I used to be able to push a double stroller faster than this solo jog. I shook out my arms, trying to relax my shoulders and wiped away the sweat that gathered in the crease of my elbow. Muscles and tendons took turns protesting their use, but I kept moving, determined to reach my goal. I eventually did it, crossing my imaginary finish line, having kept my consistently slow pace. I stepped into my yard, huffing and puffing. Guzzling water, I laid down on my porch swing and iced my ankle because being 30 is tough.

In many ways, the jog felt like a metaphor for my life, which isn’t a novel or notable epiphany. Writers across the years, including Paul and the writer of Hebrews, likened their life and faith to running a race. But when I envision those racers, I imagine real runners. I picture people who have trained to run a marathon, hitting the pavement with more stamina and speed than me. Long-distance running is no easy feat, but those folks are hitting their wall at mile 20, and I’m over here dying around mile 1.5. But that’s their race, and this is mine.

My race looks like a step forward day after day, raising children in this weird place of having both school-aged kids and young children. My race is publishing this blog week after week, wishing I was ready for the marathon of writing a book, but knowing I’m slogging it out learning to handle a couple of miles at a time. My race looks like commitment in the little things, dedicating myself to my family and friends, caring for others in the smallest of ways. I don’t think I’ve found some “big calling” in my life, just lots of little shuffles of forward motion. Every diaper change, homework help, therapy session, snuggle time, tickle war, meal cooked, and even blog written, is another footfall forward, leaving its impact on this earth and moving me further along in my race. It might be slow, but it’s mine, and I’ll run it with all I’ve got.

“Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith…” Hebrews 12:1-2a