I am not a runner, per say. An emboldened walker, is more like. I put the gentle leader on the dog, attach it to the leash, and sometimes break a ten-minute mile. Once in a while I amp up my pace and mileage because I’ve signed up for a race. I need to prove to my own body that I’m still in control. Likewise, I want it to reassure me–it’s still pumping blood, moving oxygen, responding with all vitality. In this way, I’m testing what is good and what is rubbish and where I need to consider pacing myself, when I need to rest, if I need better nourishment.
It’s fascinating to me that spiritual testing is really no different. An intimate conversation between our body and mind parallels the trials we are faced in the presence of God. He never wills that we break, only become stronger and more in tune with Himself. Do I need to take a different route? Should I challenge myself to do more hills, stretch my way of thinking? How do I increase my dependence on Him and focus less on myself? Is it time to get rid of old habits, overhaul my current alimentation?
I wonder about the stamina God is working to produce in my life. In a running race–for me, at least–there is a slog that hits about ¾ of the way through, where I wonder if I can finish strong. I’m never sure I am cut out for this. I probably shouldn’t have even signed up and paid the entry fee in the first place. Who do I think I am, this weekend warrior body who jogs with Taylor Swift in my ears and a mutt panting happily alongside me? The doubt creeps in, the weariness–always at three-quarters to the finish line. I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t train enough for this kind of thing.
Running with endurance has always intrigued me. I love its simplicity–nothing more than a body in forward motion–how easily it translates to faith over the long haul. Exercising those muscles built from pounding, pounding, pounding. Stress plus patience produces something amazing–resilience. It isn’t any wonder that after a person is in good physical shape they begin to look forward to the routine pounding just to assure themselves they are fit for the challenge. They don’t want to grow weary when it counts, so they commit themselves to the habitual burn. And they find there is a byproduct–endorphins. Pure joy in the sweat. Hope of overcoming. Signs of change.
There are things I have unknowingly signed up for in my own life that have turned into races. Stuff that depends on the continual exercise of faith even though it would be easier to lay on the couch and pretend like I’m not really in a race. Marriage, kids, work, school, mental health, community relationships. I need to stay in shape, need to keep my eyes on the prize, or I won’t be able to finish strong. I might not even finish at all if I avoid the training.
I was thinking about this the other night as I watched the BBC report from Idlib, Syria. I cannot relate to refugees there, folks who have spent a decade dodging bombs and trying to stay fed and warm. This winter has been one of the harshest for those poor people, parents watching as their babies freeze to death, nothing to shelter their heads or fill their bellies. Children collect trash to burn; mothers and fathers plead for help. I cannot even fathom the horror of it. It makes me physically sick.The world turns their back and ignores them, too busy buying up all the toilet paper and antibacterial soap for themselves.
We are lying if we are Me Too people. We are Me First people. Me, me, me.
I stay awake at night over the disparity of it.
But I am convinced we must stare it in the face, and we must stare it down closer to home, too. It is part of the pounding. We can’t let ourselves be comfortable with suffering; we must draw near to the source and partake in the pain if we plan on making it to the finish line. We are fooling ourselves to think we can remain unaffected and coast our way over injury and death. Our money, status, birthright, righteousness, face masks–whatever it is that we hope will save us in tragedy is a major stumbling block to our faith race. We must hone in on suffering; even welcome it.
As a family, we have tried to intentionally move into such a space where suffering and the nitty-gritty of life splashes up on our own boots. We sponsor several children in other countries, and though I am convinced this is the most tangible way to reach beyond our borders, we know it isn’t the only thing we can do.
We have moved to a community of rainbow-colored, blue-collared, English language learners, the elderly, the lonely. We plugged into our neighborhood and school and seek out opportunities to elevate others. Education, housing, encouragement. We look at our bank account and wonder how close we–the rich American neighbors–can scrape the bottom and stay in the race.
Having built relationships with people who are poor and struggling, we are coming to humbly realize it is very little about what we have to offer. They, after all, are the elite runners. These are the examples we are to behold and lift up with dignity and respect. They are coaching us on how to run with endurance.
The farm laborers in Haiti with eleven kids. The ruddy-faced little girl in the mountains of Peru, raising guinea pigs and corn for her family to eat. The teenagers who take their little siblings to the park and share their Mountain Dew. The single dad with four boys in an apartment down the street. The newly immigrated, the brave kids who show up to school scared. The moms who let go of their child’s hand and jet off to work at the nail salon or dry cleaners. Teachers with a small salary, charged with the responsibility of educating kids who cannot understand the language or whose parents are in prison. Brothers and sisters starving in Syria.
Elite athletes, all of them. What have I to offer? No.
Me too–please, Lord, give us this privilege. Show us suffering and let us partake. Strengthen our feeble arms and weak knees (Hebrews 12:12).
How can these pro athletes teach me to keep my eyes on the prize? This is the value in holding their hand. What we offer is no answer to their trials–we alone have no balm for a weary soul. All we can do is encourage them to stay in the race because the prize at the end will be worth it. Our job is to keep talking about the Prize. To not grow weary in doing good, to not give up (Galatians 6:9). To not worry and fret like other people, people without hope (Ephesians 2:12).
We depend on one another to holler encouragement and ring cowbells. We do not just bump elbows, wave from afar, or ignore the fact there is a race going on. We have to link arms and push each other to the finish, and my weak self needs as much coaching as a person can get.
I wonder if we aren’t a bunch of bleeding hearts, worked up over the entertainment value of sob stories and various horrors regarding our planet and the people on it. Something to talk about over the water cooler, something to text our best friend about, something to turn into a meme. Something to scare us into doing nothing or hoarding security to ourselves. We need practical reminders we are in a race.
I have a smart watch that alerts me, when my heart rate dips, to Move! It buzzes and lights up and I immediately curse it. What right does it have to tell me to get moving? I still keep the darn thing strapped to my wrist. I think God’s Word is the same–we must keep it strapped to our heart, let it buzz our conscience, tell us to move.
We are racing to the end, people in front and people behind us.
Keep moving, feel the habitual burn. It is building resilience, hope, joy.
