Seventeen years ago, on a football field, while taking the President's Physical Fitness Test, I ran the fastest mile in my high school for a female. 7 minutes and 15 seconds. 7 minutes and 15 seconds. Forgive me, I just needed to hear it again because I'm pretty sure I haven't run a mile that fast since. At that moment, I decided running was my sport. For one, I could actually do it and do it pretty well. While I didn't have the confidence to pursue running as anything more than a hobby, a means of keeping in shape, I do remember the little milestones accrued as I became more proficient at my sport of choice. The first time I ran six miles without stopping. The first time I ran ten miles. My first 5-K. I also remember when, over ten years ago, in college, I decided that I was going to run a marathon.......one day.
A couple of weeks ago, I sat in my Monday morning bible study watching Beth Moore speak on a large projection screen. My women's group is studying her Psalms of Ascent series, and in this particular lesson, she kept driving home the point, "Ours is a God of timing, girls. Ours is a God of timing." As I prepared for the marathon and even after, I couldn't stop thinking about that phrase, a God of timing. Through my marathon journey, I had discovered just how loudly this rings true.
While I'd wanted to run a marathon for 15 years, it wasn't until about 6 years ago that I moved to a city that hosts a marathon, actually bought a book on training and well, began training. That same year, I came down with pneumonia. Downtrodden, but not defeated, I trained again the next year only to meet the same fate. The following year I broke my ankle while running, of course, and was unable to run for three months. Faced with one training obstacle after another, I am sure there were times I lifted my hands to God and asked, "why?" or maybe, "why not?" It seemed to me that God was against me reaching my goal....or was he?
My father-in-law parked his motor home downtown for the race this year. My husband and I avoided yucky, gross port-a-potties the moments before the race thanks to the sparkling clean bathroom on the coach. While waiting for her aunt to finish a five-hour run, my three-year-old niece had a place to go to the bathroom several hundred times. My husband and I had a clean, warm place to shower immediately after the race, which made hanging out with friends and family downtown much more comfortable. A was able to play safely and eat lunch without my mother-in-law having to drive her home and back. This wouldn't have been possible two, three, four years ago because my in-laws didn't own the coach.
My husband, his best friend, and my sweet baby girl (sitting in her stroller) ran mile 25 of the race with me. Had I not broken my leg, I probably wouldn't have been able to conceive because of all the training, and A would not have been there to share in my joy. My husband's best friend, Brent, who had just completed his own first marathon, would not have understood just how important it was for me to have that support at that exact moment in the race. His own experience enriched mine. And most importantly, I don't think four, five, or six years ago, I would have been in a place in my own life where I could have run with grace and faith. My own relationship with Christ needed to be at this place for me to truly lean on my faith to get me through the marathon and for this accomplishment to truly glorify God.
As I look at how perfectly all of this fell into place, I understand now exactly what Beth means when she says, "Ours is a God of timing." Girls, (and boys) indeed he is. And I've learned through this experience that he isn't a God of my timing, or your timing, he is the God of His timing and fortunately for me in my folly, that is true. He is the God of perfect timing and I praise Him for it! Now instead of asking why, I think I'm learning to say, "whenever you're ready, Lord, just make me ready."
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Mile Markers
I stand there looking at the old gym floor, searching for a slat wide enough to slip through and just disappear. All I see is dust. "Lisa." That leaves just the two of us. Me and Ellie It is fifth period P.E. and the cruel ritual of choosing teams is in progress. The day's "chooser" stands there, hands on her hips, sizing us up. She cocks her head to take a better look at Tracy: slow, short, round, still wheezing from the mere exertion of walking up the gym stairs. Then there's me: tall, clumsy, zero self-confidence. I refuse to look "chooser" in the eye and give her the satisfaction of knowing that I do care if she picks me last. "Ellie." The familiar lump, the frantic blinking to stop the stinging. I don't even bother raising my head and slump over to my place on the bench. I quietly wipe my eyes while the other girls take their places for kickball.
Fast forward twenty-two years. A much different girl kisses her husband good luck and walks confidently, but nervously to the line of athletes getting ready to run. That's right, I said athletes! No one is there to tell you where to line-up or whether or not you even can. This athlete can finally choose any place in line she wants because she's earned it, but I make my way to the middle of the pack and find the 4:30 pacer. Yet to take one step of my 26.2 mile journey, 4 hours and thirty minutes is still my goal for the day. (I smile now as I write that.)
Still tall, still clumsy, somewhere along the way, I found my passion for running, and today I would find out if I really did love running or if I had also lost my mind, somewhere along that way. Almost four thousand runners undulate like a wave of anxiety, warming up cold legs, tying shoe laces over and over, bending and twisting into stretches. I just stand there, taking it all in.
"Runners, get ready." Ten years of dreaming about this moment, four years of overcoming training obstacles just to get to the start line, and in seconds, I am running by Boutwell Auditorium, weaving through slower runners, trying to find my stride. About five miles into the race, I finally find a comfortable pace and settle into the race. Ah, a beautiful sunny day, perfect temperature, and "WHAT!! You mean I have to run UP the hill." Sure I'd trained for hills, but nothing really prepares you for a mile climb up hill, especially just six miles into the race. I dig in and start the climb and find myself actually passing the 4:30 pacer. I'd regret that in about thirty minutes! I get to the top and find it wasn't all that bad. Unfortunately, that was just the first of many climbs. For those of you who've never visited our fair city, it is hilly!
My legs feel really strong for the first half of the race. I even make it to the half/full split feeling spry. For some reason, though, when I get to mile 13, it hits me, hard, I mean SMACK, I am only half-way through this race. Half-way. I have to run 13 MORE miles. Panic sets in, and I know I've hit the wall. Not literally, for those who know just how clumsy I am, I've hit the proverbial marathon wall, and I've hit it early. Suddenly, fifth-grade me is back, and she is talking a good game of self-doubt. My eyes start to sting, my legs feel shaky, I'm suddenly overcome with that cold, clammy feeling you get right before you vomit, and I realize that I'm not going to make it. Do they give medals for the half-marathon if you just make it to that point in the full, or do I need to actually cross the half-marathon finish line? Seriously, I reach in my pocket for my phone, ready to call my husband, who is celebrating a blistering 1:30 in the half, when I see them.
"Run, Girl! You can do it!" Our neighbors are standing on the corner with a sign and shaking a cow bell cheering. I take in a deep breath and try to stifle the flow of tears. Waving, I express gratitude and manage to run by them. "Okay," I think to myself. "If I don't finish, I'll disappoint them and they came all the way out here for me." I also picture telling my daughter, "mommy couldn't do it." How could I tell A and T I didn't make it? Everyone I loved was waiting for me to cross that finish line, so I did the only thing I could do. I prayed, "Dear God, give me all the strength my legs need to finish and let me feel the arms of Jesus holding me up." Then I just ran one foot in front of the other until I got to mile 18 and decided to walk one foot in front of the other.
The plan of course, is to run the entire marathon, but when your legs adamantly fail to cooperate, there's not much else you can do. Plus, I had begun to notice that all of us middle-packer-non-elite types were walking at least a little. I manage to find a nice little walk/hobble/jog, walk/hobble/jog rhythm. Finally, mile 20, glorious mile 20 and in just over 3 hours. At this point, I know I can crawl six miles and still beat the 6 hour cut-off. At mile 22, my wonderful husband and his best friend, meet me with Powerade, some candy, and a morale boost.
Just as I begin to feel human again, the evil, evil marathon planners apparently had decided to pull Heartbreak Hill from Boston and drop it smack dab in the middle of Mile 23. I kid you not. I am forced to lean forward and hike, just to keep from rolling back down the hill. Cresting that hill, finally, I see it, downtown with its beautiful buildings and believe it or not, I begin to weep. (It is really hard to run while crying, but I managed to do it a lot that day.) By now, my legs are shooting intense cramps with every step and I can no longer feel my toes, but I do manage to jog down the steep hills without collapsing or blowing out a knee.
At mile 25, I am getting ready to just walk and not keep trying for under five hours, when my knight in shining armor appears once again with his best friend in tow, and T , Brent, and I run the last mile of the Mercedes together. (If only he'd actually had a horse.) Crossing the finish line, I grab my medal, hobble over to T , embrace him and weep, my exhausted body, wracking with sobs. I did it! 26.2 miles. All I can really say is, Praise God!
It sounds so trite, but it is so true. The marathon really is a wonderful metaphor for life. Sometimes it's a breeze and you know exactly where you're going, and other days you are literally willing one foot in front of the other, leaning on the grace and mercy of God and the wonderful people he's willing to put in your path. Am I a different person for running? Is my life suddenly changed? No. I'm the same, but I know now that I can. That no matter what the obstacle, with God, I can.
I'm most excited that running this marathon gives me the opportunity to look A in the eye and say with confidence, "Sweetheart, anything you want to achieve, anything, with God's help, you can! Mommy did it, and so can you." I also know that I'll never be that self-doubting fifth grader again. My tears now are those of joy for accomplishment not tears of dejection for a lack of natural athletic talent. I think always being picked last lit a fire of desire somewhere deep inside to achieve. Then it was probably a desire to come back to school and say, "na-na-na-boo-boo." But the more mature me, is happy that those moments drove me to try harder and work longer and dig deep to find that latent determination and with God's grace, see it to fruition.
I finished the marathon in 4:56 and for once in my athletic career, I wasn't last. I think my days of being last are long past. Now I just need to find a flat course and get that time down to 4:30....and could I do the half in under two hours? I wonder how old I'll have to be before I can actually place in my age group...
Fast forward twenty-two years. A much different girl kisses her husband good luck and walks confidently, but nervously to the line of athletes getting ready to run. That's right, I said athletes! No one is there to tell you where to line-up or whether or not you even can. This athlete can finally choose any place in line she wants because she's earned it, but I make my way to the middle of the pack and find the 4:30 pacer. Yet to take one step of my 26.2 mile journey, 4 hours and thirty minutes is still my goal for the day. (I smile now as I write that.)
Still tall, still clumsy, somewhere along the way, I found my passion for running, and today I would find out if I really did love running or if I had also lost my mind, somewhere along that way. Almost four thousand runners undulate like a wave of anxiety, warming up cold legs, tying shoe laces over and over, bending and twisting into stretches. I just stand there, taking it all in.
"Runners, get ready." Ten years of dreaming about this moment, four years of overcoming training obstacles just to get to the start line, and in seconds, I am running by Boutwell Auditorium, weaving through slower runners, trying to find my stride. About five miles into the race, I finally find a comfortable pace and settle into the race. Ah, a beautiful sunny day, perfect temperature, and "WHAT!! You mean I have to run UP the hill." Sure I'd trained for hills, but nothing really prepares you for a mile climb up hill, especially just six miles into the race. I dig in and start the climb and find myself actually passing the 4:30 pacer. I'd regret that in about thirty minutes! I get to the top and find it wasn't all that bad. Unfortunately, that was just the first of many climbs. For those of you who've never visited our fair city, it is hilly!
My legs feel really strong for the first half of the race. I even make it to the half/full split feeling spry. For some reason, though, when I get to mile 13, it hits me, hard, I mean SMACK, I am only half-way through this race. Half-way. I have to run 13 MORE miles. Panic sets in, and I know I've hit the wall. Not literally, for those who know just how clumsy I am, I've hit the proverbial marathon wall, and I've hit it early. Suddenly, fifth-grade me is back, and she is talking a good game of self-doubt. My eyes start to sting, my legs feel shaky, I'm suddenly overcome with that cold, clammy feeling you get right before you vomit, and I realize that I'm not going to make it. Do they give medals for the half-marathon if you just make it to that point in the full, or do I need to actually cross the half-marathon finish line? Seriously, I reach in my pocket for my phone, ready to call my husband, who is celebrating a blistering 1:30 in the half, when I see them.
"Run, Girl! You can do it!" Our neighbors are standing on the corner with a sign and shaking a cow bell cheering. I take in a deep breath and try to stifle the flow of tears. Waving, I express gratitude and manage to run by them. "Okay," I think to myself. "If I don't finish, I'll disappoint them and they came all the way out here for me." I also picture telling my daughter, "mommy couldn't do it." How could I tell A and T I didn't make it? Everyone I loved was waiting for me to cross that finish line, so I did the only thing I could do. I prayed, "Dear God, give me all the strength my legs need to finish and let me feel the arms of Jesus holding me up." Then I just ran one foot in front of the other until I got to mile 18 and decided to walk one foot in front of the other.
The plan of course, is to run the entire marathon, but when your legs adamantly fail to cooperate, there's not much else you can do. Plus, I had begun to notice that all of us middle-packer-non-elite types were walking at least a little. I manage to find a nice little walk/hobble/jog, walk/hobble/jog rhythm. Finally, mile 20, glorious mile 20 and in just over 3 hours. At this point, I know I can crawl six miles and still beat the 6 hour cut-off. At mile 22, my wonderful husband and his best friend, meet me with Powerade, some candy, and a morale boost.
Just as I begin to feel human again, the evil, evil marathon planners apparently had decided to pull Heartbreak Hill from Boston and drop it smack dab in the middle of Mile 23. I kid you not. I am forced to lean forward and hike, just to keep from rolling back down the hill. Cresting that hill, finally, I see it, downtown with its beautiful buildings and believe it or not, I begin to weep. (It is really hard to run while crying, but I managed to do it a lot that day.) By now, my legs are shooting intense cramps with every step and I can no longer feel my toes, but I do manage to jog down the steep hills without collapsing or blowing out a knee.
At mile 25, I am getting ready to just walk and not keep trying for under five hours, when my knight in shining armor appears once again with his best friend in tow, and T , Brent, and I run the last mile of the Mercedes together. (If only he'd actually had a horse.) Crossing the finish line, I grab my medal, hobble over to T , embrace him and weep, my exhausted body, wracking with sobs. I did it! 26.2 miles. All I can really say is, Praise God!
It sounds so trite, but it is so true. The marathon really is a wonderful metaphor for life. Sometimes it's a breeze and you know exactly where you're going, and other days you are literally willing one foot in front of the other, leaning on the grace and mercy of God and the wonderful people he's willing to put in your path. Am I a different person for running? Is my life suddenly changed? No. I'm the same, but I know now that I can. That no matter what the obstacle, with God, I can.
I'm most excited that running this marathon gives me the opportunity to look A in the eye and say with confidence, "Sweetheart, anything you want to achieve, anything, with God's help, you can! Mommy did it, and so can you." I also know that I'll never be that self-doubting fifth grader again. My tears now are those of joy for accomplishment not tears of dejection for a lack of natural athletic talent. I think always being picked last lit a fire of desire somewhere deep inside to achieve. Then it was probably a desire to come back to school and say, "na-na-na-boo-boo." But the more mature me, is happy that those moments drove me to try harder and work longer and dig deep to find that latent determination and with God's grace, see it to fruition.
I finished the marathon in 4:56 and for once in my athletic career, I wasn't last. I think my days of being last are long past. Now I just need to find a flat course and get that time down to 4:30....and could I do the half in under two hours? I wonder how old I'll have to be before I can actually place in my age group...
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Uneasy Feeling
Somebody quickly contact the zoo because their entire butterfly exhibit has escaped and taken up residency in my stomach. I kid you not! The somerasaults my stomach are turning rival any gymnastics meet, and my nerves have apparently rendered my writing helplessly cheesy.
The marathon is four days away, four! Count em: one, two, three, four. All those numbers fit on one hand. That is how close it is now. Eighteen long, grueling weeks of training, and it all comes to fruition in FOUR days. I sound a little like Grover in The Monster at the End of this Book, and frankly, I feel just as frantic. Don't turn the page!!! (Those of you who are parents of toddlers and those closet Sesame Street fans might know the book.) I can't think of a time I've been more anxious, and maybe it is because after four attempts, this could really be it. Or maybe I'm overwhelmed with anxiety because after four attempts, I'm realizing that anything could happen in four days: the flu, a cold, a broken ankle. I'm still not ready to trust that I could really do it this time and that if I somehow don't line up with all those other crazed, manic runners, I'll simply be devastated.
How cooky have I become in my quest for 26.2. I'm taking Zicam like its candy, and yesterday, I sat on the table at my orthopedic doctor's office and at my own request watched him fill two needles the length of my hand with cortisone and then almost cried out in agony when he then jabbed them into my knee joint to assure that my IT band will not cause me trouble on race day. My dear, it has reached obssession. Calm down my pounding heart; I feel like Poe, except my heart beats, race day, race day, race day. My tell-tale heart is telling on my own lack of faith.
This morning, at five a.m. when I simply couldn't think of race day any longer and began obsessing over whether or not my two year old's coat was at home or abandoned in the library, I just threw up my hands, (figuratively, of course; in my frenzy, I did have the wherewithal not to knock out my sleeping husband) and just said, "God, I'm giving it to you; I'm giving it to you." And today, I've really been trying. I'm not washing my hands non-stop to get rid of cold germs. I've only had two Zicam. And, I'm feeling calmer, more centered. I think I'll be there on race day, not because of anything I've done, but because it's God's will. And if for some reason, it isn't, and I break my ankle before the big day (there are only four, so the chances are slimming), it won't be that bad. Last time I broke my ankle, I got a beautiful little girl, and she is much more of an accomplishment than 26.2 will ever be. Hopefully, the next time I post, it will be with a finisher's medal around my neck!! Keep me in your prayers.
The marathon is four days away, four! Count em: one, two, three, four. All those numbers fit on one hand. That is how close it is now. Eighteen long, grueling weeks of training, and it all comes to fruition in FOUR days. I sound a little like Grover in The Monster at the End of this Book, and frankly, I feel just as frantic. Don't turn the page!!! (Those of you who are parents of toddlers and those closet Sesame Street fans might know the book.) I can't think of a time I've been more anxious, and maybe it is because after four attempts, this could really be it. Or maybe I'm overwhelmed with anxiety because after four attempts, I'm realizing that anything could happen in four days: the flu, a cold, a broken ankle. I'm still not ready to trust that I could really do it this time and that if I somehow don't line up with all those other crazed, manic runners, I'll simply be devastated.
How cooky have I become in my quest for 26.2. I'm taking Zicam like its candy, and yesterday, I sat on the table at my orthopedic doctor's office and at my own request watched him fill two needles the length of my hand with cortisone and then almost cried out in agony when he then jabbed them into my knee joint to assure that my IT band will not cause me trouble on race day. My dear, it has reached obssession. Calm down my pounding heart; I feel like Poe, except my heart beats, race day, race day, race day. My tell-tale heart is telling on my own lack of faith.
This morning, at five a.m. when I simply couldn't think of race day any longer and began obsessing over whether or not my two year old's coat was at home or abandoned in the library, I just threw up my hands, (figuratively, of course; in my frenzy, I did have the wherewithal not to knock out my sleeping husband) and just said, "God, I'm giving it to you; I'm giving it to you." And today, I've really been trying. I'm not washing my hands non-stop to get rid of cold germs. I've only had two Zicam. And, I'm feeling calmer, more centered. I think I'll be there on race day, not because of anything I've done, but because it's God's will. And if for some reason, it isn't, and I break my ankle before the big day (there are only four, so the chances are slimming), it won't be that bad. Last time I broke my ankle, I got a beautiful little girl, and she is much more of an accomplishment than 26.2 will ever be. Hopefully, the next time I post, it will be with a finisher's medal around my neck!! Keep me in your prayers.
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