Hurting Legs and Weary Hearts

It was a cool, January morning and I was awake much earlier than the sun. It was the morning of my first marathon two and a half years ago. I had hardly slept the night before because of my nerves, but the lack of sleep didn’t slow me down when my alarm went off.

Dad was eagerly waiting for me to come out of the room so we could jump in the car and head to the center.

I can still feel the nerves fluttering in my stomach as he dropped me off long before the start of the race so I could sign in, stretch, and get ready to go.

You see, this was the first race where Dad wouldn’t be at the starting line.

This scared the mess out of me.

All through junior high, high school, and even my few college meets, Dad was always there to give me a kiss on the forehead, stand by the starting line and run around to every point he possibly could to cheer me on. Majority of the time, he ran just as much as me.

Back to the marathon.

It was in Houston, a few days after the Olympic trials. I had never run more than 22 miles and the thought of running 26.2 terrified me.

Soon enough, the gun shot and I was on my way.

Around mile 7, an hour or so into the race, my legs started to hurt.

Bad sign.

I saw my dad, mom and boyfriend for the first time at mile 10. I was on pace, but my legs were really starting to bother me. When I told Dad this, I saw the concern in his eyes.

Flashback a few weeks prior to the race. Dad and I discussed the idea of him jumping in during the middle of the race to keep me going. He wouldn’t have a badge, so there would be a possibility that he could get kicked out. We talked about it, but ultimately decided on race morning that he wouldn’t jump in for fear that it could not only get him kicked out, but also disqualify me.

Fast forward to mile 13.

Halfway through the race and my bladder got the best of me. It was my first time to stop and what a mistake that was.

Every two miles after that, I was stopping to stretch or get water.

Mile 15, I hit the dreaded wall.

I wasn’t expecting it to hit me so soon, but then again, I didn’t get the training in that I needed over Christmas break so I shouldn’t have been so surprised.

Mile 18, I was ready to quit. I had already decided that when I saw my parents again I was going to pull out.

My calves were cramped, my legs were in pain, and my mind was somewhere in the dark with no glimmer of light to be found.

Mile 18.5, I saw my mom and boyfriend.

“This is it, I’m out.”

Then, like a scene out of a movie with the Rocky theme song playing, I saw my dad in his running gear trotting towards me until he was finally at my side and in step with me.

“How you doing, Baby Girl?”

“Dead. I want to quit.”

“Haha, yea it’s about that time. Let’s keep going.”

Painfully, we hit mile 20.

Mile 22, the tears started.

For the first time since freshman year of high school, I got mad at my dad for pushing me.

Mile 23, then 24...

With less than a mile of the race left, Dad stepped off onto the sidewalk since the rest of the way was fenced off.

From the corner of my eye, I could still see him running like a crazy man, shouting to me from the sidewalk and through the crowd of people.

Mile 26.

0.2 miles left and I would be crossing the finish line.

The emotions that hit me when I finished were overwhelming.

I finished. I had stinking finished my first marathon.

I had run in honor of my Papaw, so that only heightened the emotions.

I stumbled across the finish line and, like a drunk person, wobbled to the line to receive my finisher’s award.

After what felt like days, I was on my way to meet my parents. I collapsed in their arms.

I was dead.

I was in pain.

I cried when I went to put my sweats on.

But I finished and had it not been for my dad coming to my rescue, I wouldn’t have crossed the finish line.

As I look back now on the race, I can’t help but see how closely it mimics my relationship with Jesus.

I spend months training, reading His word and submerging myself into devotionals.

Sure, I’ll miss a day or two, but it can’t hurt me too much, right?

Then a trial comes along.

At first, I can handle it. It feels a little uncomfortable but I’ll make it.

Then the storm keeps pouring.

Is it over yet, God? My heart hurts. I don’t like this.

I start to give up. The test is too much to handle. The end is nowhere in sight so I’ll just call it quits early.

I stop trusting the training I endured months before.

I’ve finally had enough. I start slowing down, ready to throw in the towel.

That’s when I see Him; our beautiful Savior in front of me, His arms open and ready to embrace me.

He starts whispering Truth in my ear.

Rest in Me. I will give You strength. I will not give you anything more than you can handle.

He takes my hand; He starts to help carry the cross that I built, that only I deserve to carry.

The tears come, the pain worsens.

At the last moment, it seems like He disappears and leaves me alone again.

But I can still feel Him. I can see the end is near.

I can hear His voice in the crowd and, even though it still hurts, I feel peace in knowing I’m not alone.

All at once, it’s over.

I can stop struggling. I can finally rest.

The pain lasts a little while longer, the tears still flow for a while even after it is finished, but oh! How wonderful it feels to fall into the arms of our Father!

Like Paul, I like to think of obstacles as races.

As the years pass, I’m learning what it means to “run in such a way as to get the prize,” (1 Corinthians 9:24); the prize of eternal life with Jesus.

I’m continuing to learn how to “train,” where to train, and with whom to train.

I’m starting the physical training for a marathon as we speak. I know that there may come a time when my body will no longer allow me to run, so I want to use this gift while I can.

But I pray that I never stop training for the spiritual marathon. There may be seasons where I train harder than others and I pray that during the low seasons, I can look up and see our Heavenly Father standing there, cheering me on into His arms.

I pray that my heart never stops beating for Him, that even when times are tough, I can look next to me and see my Daddy next to me, pushing me through to the finish line.

Folks, Mama Haley is back in action.

And all glory goes to the most amazing Coach who never gives up on a poor athlete like me.

“Do you not know that in a race all runners run, but only one gets the prize? Run in such a way as to get the prize. Everyone who competes in the games goes into strict training. They do it to get a crown that will not last, but we do it to get a crown that will last forever. Therefore I do not run like someone running aimlessly; I do not fight like a boxer beating the air. No, I strike a blow to my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize.” 1 Corinthians 9:24-27