“And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.” Hebrews 12:1b
Runners in skintight leggings and neon shoes pranced before the starting line like racehorses at the gate. Two men in their early twenties chatted while stretching. An elderly man in bright green shorts glanced at them and then stared straight ahead. The park ranger pushed the blow horn.
We took off.
I ran behind the man in the bright green shorts. His legs were so bowed that each step appeared to defy gravity. The trail wound down the mountain like an apple peeled in one long strip. Water foamed off the limestone cliffs and splattered the asphalt. Loose gravel crunched beneath my sneakers.
The night before, my daughters (in their enthusiasm to inspect my running packet) had misplaced the safety pins for the bib, so my husband had threaded it to my t-shirt with straight pins. One poked me now, so, still running, I worked the needle back through the cotton.
Looking up, I saw a dilapidated white farmhouse crouched inside a tangle of trees sprouting along the fertile river bottom. I wondered how the house had stood there for so many years without getting flooded. Or perhaps getting flooded was exactly why it was abandoned.
The man in the green shorts turned around at the three-mile mark. I turned as well. I passed men and women of every age and body type—some jogging, some walking, but all moving forward.
A few smiled as we passed; others focused on their footsteps or breathing. I gave a thumbs up to an elderly man and woman who held on to each other as they hobbled downhill.
Their reciprocating smiles flooded me with joy. Not since Covid had I experienced the thrill of strangers working toward a common goal.
Half a mile later, the mountain’s loose switchbacks lost their appeal. I thought of my body like a bike, gearing down to climb. Runners started walking, but the man in the bright green shorts—his shinbones curved like parentheses—did not.
If he could keep running, so could I.
I don’t have to go fast, I thought, I just have to keep going.
Placing one foot in front of the other, I climbed and climbed and climbed. At the top of the hill, I caught sight of the bright green shorts. The only time I saw the man walk was to the aid station where he gulped down a paper cup of water, threw it in the trash, and continued running.
I passed one of the twenty-year-old guys who had started walking. He started running again to pass me, and then I passed him. We went like this for about a mile.
Turning, I entered the park. The man in the green shorts was just up ahead. If he could finish strong, so could I. I increased my pace, thinking again of horses when they’re headed to the barn.
The finish line was up ahead. I passed beneath it and looked around.
The elderly man in the green shorts was gone.
I will never know his name, age, or what had happened to his legs. But watching him run in both defiance and support of his body inspired me to do the same.
Like my sight-impaired friend who went rock rappelling, we cannot always control what happens to us, but we can control our response to it.
Therefore, on this race of life, we don’t have to go fast, we just have to keep going—putting one foot in front of the other until we cross the finish line.
What challenge are you facing? Who inspires you to persevere?
The post Racing Toward the Finish Line appeared first on Jolina Petersheim.
