We get nervous whenever Linc gets sick. It brings back thoughts of the NICU, of rushing to the ER and his stay at the Children’s Hospital when he had pneumonia. It triggers fears from the newborn days when we were told all kinds of scary predictions about Linc’s health. Having a sick kid is never fun, but having a sick kid who can’t tell you what’s wrong makes you feel so helpless.
Today I have a boulder in my stomach, which could just as easily be the weight of worry and grief as the beginning of a stomach bug. I know that worry is a destructive force and won’t do Linc a bit of good. And I know grief is a natural process, and there’s nothing to do but sit with it and let it unfold, unpleasant as that is. So, I have made peace with having a heavy heart and a befuddled tummy today, but I won’t add the weight of worry to the list.
Instead, I’ll share some wisdom that my dear husband imparted to me this week. I’ve talked off and on in this blog about my attempts at running. I have been building up my ability to run for a couple years now. Despite the fact that I was born with a body type very much not suited to running and the fact that my dear friend asthma has forced me to keep my progress almost excruciatingly slow, I have been slogging away at it several times a week.
Let me tell you, I am not naturally suited for running. While I’m doing it, it hurts. Every step hurts, every breath burns, every stretch of sidewalk feels like a torturous uphill slope. Afterwards, I feel great, but while I’m running I feel like I’m dying.
But I do it for this one very important reason: because I can. Because it is a hard thing I can work at, get better at, prove myself strong by doing. Because if I have legs, I better use them for something other than occupying a pair of pants or holding down my couch. Because if Linc can push as hard as he has to push to accomplish things like walking and eating and speaking, then I can force myself out of my comfort zone and onto the pavement despite a complaining body that would rather be in bed. Because life should be about becoming more tomorrow than you were yesterday. It should be about growth and pushing uphill and literally going the distance. I run because I am able, even just barely able, and I think it’s unfair for us to squander any ability we are given just because it requires effort or scares us or seems inconvenient to our schedules.
And in that spirit, I started training for a half marathon a few months back. I figured if I put in the time, followed a training schedule, and just got comfortable with the idea of being in pain for that many minutes/miles/steps a week, I could do it. I could amaze myself by running 13.1 miles. It didn’t take very long to realize that I couldn’t keep up with the training schedule. No matter how hard I pushed, I couldn’t break the 6 mile barrier. By almost killing myself, I can run just shy of 6 miles and not one single inch further.
Every weekend, after my long morning run, I come home and Sam asks me, “How was your run?” And every time my answer is something along the lines of, “It wasn’t good enough.” A couple of weeks ago, I came home and announced that I was pulling out of the half marathon. I would do another one, I told him, a few months later when I’d had time to train enough to run the whole thing. “I didn’t sign up to walk a half marathon,” I told him, “So I’ll just wait until I can run the whole thing, and then I’ll sign up for one.”
Very patiently, he told me that I was going to show up and walk the whole thing if need be. I was going to finish a half marathon even if it wasn’t the way I wanted to finish it because that’s who I am. It took me a few days of resenting him to accept the compliment and admit he was right.
This week, when I came home and he asked me how my run was, I started to tell him it was a complete an utter failure. Four weeks until the race and I seem to be going backwards. But he just stopped me, pointed to my running shoes in a pile on the floor, and said, “Any time you put on those shoes and step out the door, it is not a failure.” Profound, man.
Just by putting myself out there, I have already succeeded. I needed to hear that this week. I needed to tell it to myself this morning as I spluttered through a short run with the weight of grief and worry sumo wrestling in my tummy. Some runs are better than others. Some days are better than others. But as long as we’re putting our shoes on and stepping out the door, especially on days like this, we are making progress.
Today I will be thankful for legs that can run, for my sweet family, even for the sting of sadness that reminds me I am alive. I will put on my shoes and put one foot in front of the other and thank the Lord for every ache and pain that I am blessed to be able to feel, for the amazing life I have been given, and for my wise (and handsome!) husband and two gorgeous boys. I hope you will put your shoes on and step out the door today with thanks for your life, too, whatever and wherever it is.
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