Chasing the Truth - Part 2

In one unexpected twist after another, everything I’d pictured as I’d worked at training to run this race - changed.

For starters, I came down with the worst… well, really, the only… cold I have had in years.  I knew I shouldn’t even try to run with it.  But I had less than a week left.  So, I did it anyway.  Remember that day when my phone pinged with the memory of my virtual race?  I had just returned from a run on the worst day of my cold.  My watch had shown me my slowest time since I’d begun training for this race.  And then my phone had reminded me of my fastest.  I knew I was comparing my worst day to my best, and yet I still let it discourage me. 

Then, with only three-days to go, thanks to other unforeseen changes all around, it became clear that I would not get to run this race side by side with those kids I love after all.  In fact, maybe none of us would end up running it at all… All for perfectly valid reasons.  We could have just let it go and walked away with only our good intentions.  Nobody would have blamed us.  In fact, hardly anyone would even know we’d planned on it.  And yet… even though I surely didn’t feel “ready,” it also didn’t feel right not to see it through.  Not after the work… the hours and the miles I’d put in. 

And especially not after I’d begun to see such a profound lesson and message taking shape in the process. 

Within an hour of really having begun to wrestle with how I could reconcile those things, I noticed something:  A poster hanging in our post office.  It had probably been there for a while, but it hadn’t caught my eye until that moment.  In fact - even then - I walked right past it, out the door, and halfway down the sidewalk before I processed what I thought I’d just seen.  I doubled back to make sure, and there it was:  A local 5K, on the very same weekend as our now defunct one (which did offer a virtual option that would have felt disappointing to take, unless…)  Suddenly, I knew how to make it all work!   I could go run the local race – not the one I’d planned on, but still an in-person one offering me the chance to finally line up and do it for real.  Simultaneously, I could record my time and turn it in to still participate in the other event virtually.   I went straight home and called to register for the local race - before I could change my mind. 

When the night before the big day arrived - I definitely could have changed my mind. 

I hoped to rest well by trying not to think about what I faced in the morning.  That didn’t work.  I don’t know if it took forever or if it happened too fast, but morning came.  I crawled out of my bed before dawn – and before my alarm – stretched for 10-minutes, then put on the clothes and shoes I’d laid out the night before.  Suddenly, I felt so ready to just get it done. 

Did you know that, physiologically, excitement and anxiety are almost identical? 

Well, they are.  So, I really can’t say which of those things it was that motivated me…

I climbed into my car and, minus the two-young sidekicks I’d imagined having for this experience, set off alone.  As I drove, I took in the glorious fall sunrise and jammed to my Spotify “5K” playlist.  I tried to remind myself to just enjoy this… Because I had to do something to drown out the sound of my nerves, trying to tell me - exactly as they had before my first 5K walk all those years ago - that I was making a ridiculous mistake. 

Maybe I drove too fast, because it felt like I arrived at the race all too quickly.  No turning back now… I picked up my registration bag, pinned on my number, and went to find the starting line.  I decided that the best thing I could do was to keep moving:  To stay warm on the brisk morning, to keep my 50-year-old joints loose - and my lingering cough to myself in a day and age when a cough seems to freak people out.  But most of all, I needed to do something besides overthink…

My poor husband.  I was alone, so naturally I texted him my every thought over the course of the next hour as I walked, jogged, and waited for the start: 

“These people look fast.”   

“I know I’m the slowest person here.”

“This is stupid.”

How could it feel exactly the same as it had all those years ago?  

It did.  Right down to, and including, the very last second when I thought I was just standing there listening to instructions, and then with what felt like far from enough warning, everyone took off running!    

Channeling my adrenaline and trying to stay mindful of keeping my own pace, I threaded my way through the pack until I found a pocket that felt right to me.  I passed a couple of people.  Then a couple more. 

And then, I just ran. 

Instead of worrying that I hadn’t done enough to prepare, I thought about how much I had done – and I ran:  Along the sparkling river on a stunning fall morning.  Fully aware that this really might be the one and only time I’d ever do this, I smiled and felt tears: 

I was here – doing this! 

Chasing no one and nothing but that feeling, I was surprised when the turnaround – the halfway point - seemed to come much faster than it does at home.  I made the turn and kept running.  I offered some smiles and thumbs-ups to other runners and walkers still coming behind me on their way to the turn.

When my watch vibrated at two miles, I reminded myself that I only had one mile left.  I’d only ever have this chance to run this mile.  I was starting to get tired, but I also recognized the bridge; then the fence; then the turn of the trail that I knew meant I was almost back to where I’d started. 

Then I could see the finish line; hear the people cheering.  I saw the clock, and thankful for having learned to save something for that last 10th, I raced it as I crossed the line. 

All those years of thinking I couldn’t.  All the miles.  The hours.  The thoughts.  The hopes.  The doubts.  So much had gone into daring to try… 

And in 26-minutes and 52 seconds, I had. 

It took me four seconds after crossing the line to remember to stop my watch.  Once I did, I snapped a photo of it and sent it home.  Finished.  Then I stood smiling, trying not to choke up as I watched others cross the line after whatever it had taken them to make it there. 

I’d end up snapping and sending one more photo home that morning.  The one of the posted results that showed a “1” by my name – seemingly meaning I’d won my class.  “That can’t be what that means,” I texted.  “I’m pretty sure it is,” my husband replied.  He was correct.

…Back at home later that afternoon, I sat and gave him a recap of my entire experience.  Hearing how much I’d really enjoyed it, he asked about “next time.”  I told him that, at this point, I have no plans for there to be a next time.  When he asked why, I told him that knowing that I have because I can is what matters to me.  I don’t need to compete.   

And it feels so good to mean that. 

I can’t help but think of one more thing Forrest Gump said:

“You’ve got to put the past behind you before you can move on.  And I think that’s what my run was all about.” 

Amen, Forrest.  Amen. 

Epilogue:

As my mind spun with all I hoped to convey in the telling of this story, I decided to start by sharing a snippet in a Facebook post.  I included a photo with a caption alluding to a story behind the obvious one, which I promised to eventually tell in greater detail here.  I did that partially because it had been a really special day for me, but also to help hold myself accountable to actually making time to write the whole story. 

The day after that post, a young person asked me about my story.  I explained a little about some of the words other people had spoken to me, and how I’d allowed them to shape my beliefs about myself.  I’d soon learn I was speaking to someone familiar with hearing almost the exact same words.  And here is what I said: 

“Don’t believe it.” 

Who knows?  Maybe I was the first person to ever say something like that to that sweet soul.  Or maybe the person God used in their story to say it at just the right time.   

As I worked this week on writing this, I heard John Onwuchekwa say,

“People are more impacted by the weakness that we share with them than by the wisdom we hurl at them.” 

I believe that.

Even if I could go back and tell younger me, “It’s going to be OK.  In fact, it’s going to be so much better than OK, you’d never even believe it!” I know it probably wouldn’t matter.  The truth is that nothing anyone else can say will ever magically undo the false things that life teaches us to believe about ourselves.  That, I have learned, is an ongoing, never-ending process.  One I personally must choose to continue every single day. 

If by telling the whole story, I can help someone else?  It is worth it. 

Maybe you, right this very moment, believe something about yourself that is just not true.   Maybe because of something someone else has said.  Maybe because of past mistakes or failures.  Maybe just because of today’s circumstances.  If nobody else has ever told you, I will: 

Don’t believe it.    

Sometimes I feel tempted to look back and wish certain chapters of my life weren’t a part of my story.   But I’m learning not to do that.  For one thing, we just can’t change the past.  Ever.  A more important truth though – the most important truth – is that I know Who wrote every single word of my story.  And yours.  And I trust and believe that He’s written them exactly as He has for His perfect reasons.  We can ask Him to help us see what He wants us to do with what He’s given us.   

He has given me my story - my whole, messy, more-than-meets-the-eye true story – and He’s also given me the heart and the words to tell it. 

Who knows?  Maybe for exactly such a time as this.