Stories of grace for life's unexpected turns
If you think Jesus would have come into your home that day and not issued a strong rebuke to the head of household, you are mistaken. These words of condemnation have been haunting me for days now. They aren’t all that different than the soundtrack I play in my head on an almost-daily basis. It’s…
I am nesting. On Saturday I emptied the refrigerator. Last summer’s homemade pickles in their jars. The bread ends that seem to multiply on every shelf. The eggs. The milk. The fruit and veggies. All of it sat on the floor or the counter as I carefully removed the shelves and wiped them down with…
I’ve heard that life is like a highway. And it definitely seems like that sometimes. The pace of life swirls around me at dizzying speeds. We’re all so busy. In such a hurry. Always somewhere to be, something else to do. I’m a get-to-the-point, get-there-quick kind of girl. I don’t like to waste time on…
“Mommy, are people sick here?”
The young boy’s question caught my attention as we sat in the waiting room of the counseling center. I didn’t hear his mother’s answer, but I wondered the same thing myself the first time we went for counseling. The people waiting with us that day looked so normal, I remember thinking. If I’d met any of them on the street, I wouldn’t have thought they needed to see a counselor. People might say the same thing about my husband and me.
We’re not outwardly having problems, but we’re seeing a counselor to help us with our marriage. I don’t have to tell you that, but I want you to know that things aren’t always what they seem.
I forget that all the time. Never more than when I walk into my church building on Sunday mornings.
Honestly, I’ve never thought to ask my Father, “Daddy, are people sick here?”
Some people are more obvious about their needs, their failures, their weaknesses than others, but even if those things aren’t visible, we all walk around with some kind of sickness. In college, I remember interviewing a girl who used a wheelchair. I can’t exactly remember the reason, but I won’t ever forget what she said: “We all have handicaps. You can just see mine.”
We’re all sick with something: pride, envy, prejudice, lust, unforgiveness, worry, fear … you name it.
I’ve heard it said that churches are to be like hospitals where sick people get well. Instead, we walk around dismembered, disfigured and dying, figuratively speaking, pretending like nothing’s wrong.
I’m guilty of telling people I’m fine when I’m not, and I’m guilty of assuming everyone else has their lives all together when they don’t. And I forget to treat people with compassion because I can’t see their injuries, their sicknesses.
Are there sick people here? Oh, yeah. And I’m one of them.
Jesus answered them, “It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.” (Luke 5:31-32, NIV)
Nine weeks ago, pretty much to the day, Phil and I committed to a running plan that would enable us to run a 5K — me for the first time, him the first time not in the Army and the first in 5 years. I remember the day we shopped for gear, anticipating the next day’s training session — a gradual introduction to running. At that time I could not imagine actually being ready to run a 5K in 9 weeks. Not without walking. Or collapsing. Or puking. Not intentionally. Not for fun.
I still couldn’t believe we were doing it, even as I started the day before sunup with the two early bird kiddos awake and raring to go.
We left the house at 7, loaded down with snacks and drinks, mostly for the little ones, and uncertainty. It was cold. Frost on the car windows and the ground, a chill in the air. But it’s November; what did we expect?
We were dropped off in the parking lot of the Lebanon Farmer’s Market, close to where the race would start. Blew kisses to the kids, whom we hoped we’d see later on the route, and took this picture after affixing our numbers to our shirts.
We cut through the farmers market building, receiving second glances as we did. It’s been four years. I’m sure they’re used to it by now. Potty break, then out to the street to mill around with the other runners.
We felt appropriately dressed, unlike the man we saw running around the block wearing only shorts, socks and shoes. Brr, I thought. Now, he’s crazy.
More than 200 people eventually gathered at the start line. Maybe we’re all crazy, I thought. 8 a.m. on a chilly Saturday morning in November and we’re getting ready to run 3 miles? And we paid money to do it? Yeah, we could definitely be called crazy.
After a few muffled announcements and a jaw-dropping rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner” by a girl who didn’t look much older than 12, I let out a squeal of sorts and then we were running.
What a sight. We were near the back of the pack, purposely, and we could see the rows of runners fill the street from side to side as they traversed the blocks ahead of us.
Not long into our run, the 10K’ers split off to the Rail Trail while we crested the hill toward Lebanon High School. We passed the finish line as it was being set up and the clock said 10 minutes. We were just about a mile into our run, and feeling good.
We wound through the parking lot of the high school toward a second entrance to the rail trail, volunteers pointing us in the right direction, cheering us on.
A mile behind us, we settled in to our pace on the trail. Just over a bridge, we glimpsed our kids, sitting snugly in the jogging stroller. Yesterday, Isabelle said she was going to say, “Go, Mommy! Go, Daddy!” I was teary just thinking about it as we ran. She got shy and just smiled and waved. Still, they were a sight for sore eyes. Or maybe legs?
Mile 2 was the longest part of the run. A straight stretch that felt like it was going to last forever. People started passing us going the other direction. First a few, then larger and larger packs of people. We knew the turnaround must be getting close. As the water station came into view, we could see people turning around. Two miles were soon behind us.
The home stretch found us leap frogging, per se, with a woman and two young girls, maybe 10 or 11, who alternately walked and ran. Spoiler alert: The girls finished before we did, which m
ade me feel a little sad until Phil reminded me that those girls weren’t fat and hadn’t made two babies. Touche.
We passed our kids again. It was almost over.
A man on a bicycle rode toward us announcing we only had half a mile to go. I was beginning to believe we could do this.
We left the trail and headed back through the parking lot of the high school toward the finish line. People cheered for us. They called out our race numbers in encouragement to finish. The cheers got louder the closer we got. 
Phil reached back and grabbed my hand, and the emotional dam broke. I was sobbing as I tore the tag from my number and handed it to the guy collecting them. Phil sympathy cried for a few minutes until he thought he might hyperventilate. The last few months have, at times, been a living hell for us. So many things have carried us through: prayers, notes of encouragement, shows of support, even the running. We don’t plan to stop running or exercising together, but finishing the 5K felt like closing the door on a tough chapter of our lives. Now, we look ahead.
I can’t forget to mention that seeing our time as we approached the finish line added to our mental state. We finished in 36:34. Our best 3-mile time yet, much less 3.2 miles.
We caught our breaths, walked around, found the cafeteria and gulped some water. Walked some more, ate orange slices and a couple of cookies. Grabbed more water, then went to meet the rest of the family.
We’re beat but proud of our accomplishment. Worn down but hopeful.
Home before 10 a.m. Eggs, bacon and toast for breakfast. Showers. Comfy clothes. Back to reality.
If my legs weren’t sore, I’d think maybe the whole thing was a dream, it all happened so fast.
Here we are after the race. I feel amazingly close to my husband right now. Getting through trial will do that to you, I guess.
My ever-thoughtful parents sent us these, delivered to our door a few hours after we got home. 
I can’t say where the next months are going to take us, but something has changed in me as a result of this part of the journey. I feel stronger, tougher. Yet also humbled and awestruck. Running has deepened my faith at the same time it has toned my muscles. I’m more convinced than ever that the Lord works in mysterious ways.
Running was not one of my ways to fix what was broken in our lives.
He knew better.
He always does.