In the ten minutes before tonight’s run, I changed my mind
about going at least four times. I reclined the chair a little bit further,
checked Facebook a few more times, glanced at weather.com to see just how crazy
I was (not too crazy, after all), reflected on how the chill seemed to be
reaching the inner part of my bones, noticed the congestion building inside my
head and made a mental note to get some extra sleep to fight it off, checked
the window at least twice in hopes of precipitation that never came, and
finally, I shivered, poured my body into my brand-new cold-weather running
gear, grabbed my can of mace (because, dogs) and headed out the door. I was
cold for six or seven houses, and then the chill started to feel good in the
face of sweat. And the darkness provided a welcome cover for self-consciousness
as I willed myself up the first brutal hill. And by the time I got home, I felt
healthier and more energetic than I have since the dreaded stomach virus
decimated our house last week. Of course, now it is time for bed, and I’m still
riding that high. I guess we really can’t have it all.
I’ve noticed this about the things that I need to be doing,
the things that are good, the things that keep my body and brain healthy, the
things that I love when I finally take a step: that first step is a doozy.
Never, ever do I leave the house for a run and think, “Man, I am so psyched
about this.” And never, ever, do I crack open my computer to write or edit and
think, “Yes, game on.” Even home projects, like the quilt I am totally ready to
start for Violet, languish for days on end while I will myself to get out the
darn sewing machine.
I don’t feel this way about everything. Give me a bottle of
wine or a bag of chocolate, and I don’t think twice. But drinking a glass of
wine isn’t hard…and unfortunately, it doesn’t produce much of substance when I’m
done either. The important things are hard, and they are hardest when I’m just
getting started.
On January 1 of this year, I let my friend talk me into a
run. It was brutal. It led to a half-marathon, some significant, healthy weight
loss, and a new boost in self-confidence. It taught me to train for the long haul.
In many ways, it prepared me for this new, uncertain season in life. But
actually taking those first steps scared me to death. It was embarrassing. And
exhausting. All 1.89 miles of it.
I’ve taken freelance jobs that scare me to death. I love
what I’m doing and every once in awhile, I pinch myself because I get paid to
do this. Whoa. But I’ve had a project pulled up on my computer since the day
before Christmas, and I can promise I’ll put it off until the weekend. Why?
I think the fear that holds me back is equal parts failure
and discomfort. But the failure and discomfort is so much greater if I just
hang up my running shoes and power down my computer.
That begs the question: what else am I not doing because I
can’t get past the first step?
I don’t think it’s an accident that Paul compares the life
of a Christ-follower to a race. After all the excitement of the expo and the
pre-race pasta dinner (bless), the actual start of the race is a bundle of
anxiety and stress. I’m at least half-way through before I start to suspect
that I might live through it.
I think every spiritual journey is the same, at least in
this season of life. Certainly, the more times God comes through for me, the
more I learn to count on Him. But those first wobbly steps are hard, hard,
hard. Yet the alternative is so much harder.
I haven’t written here in awhile, and I hope to change that.
I’ve had so many things to tell you all, about writing and homeschooling and
running. Every once in a while I wish I could write about marriage, and the
brutal path I’m walking right now. Maybe I will. Of all the published, polished
things I get to send into the world, this is perhaps the most important. This
is my story, the story my Father is telling through me.
I hope to see much more of you soon.
