26.2
I was in North Carolina for a time this summer, trying to get some time to grieve, and reconnect with my family. I went on almost-daily runs up a little mountain road. Usually it was about a three mile run, sometimes further. Before I would go run, though, I would wake up, make coffee, and go sit on a porch to pray, write, read, and get in touch with what I was feeling that day.
Less than eight months after Hurricane Harvey, two of my nieces died less than two months apart. It still doesn't seem real, and I've written about them elsewhere--but that's what I carried with me, and my family and I still carry the grief of losing Beatrice and Erin. On my runs in the Smokey Mountains, I would let that emotion out. When I felt anger, I would allow the anger to surge through me as I pushed forward and wore myself out. When I felt sadness, I would take a slower run, and allow the tears to fall when they were ready. When I didn't know what I was feeling, I would allow the confusion to settle in, and take a new trail, explore further than I had gone before--I would wrestle with the nagging and unanswerable "Why?" question and sometimes a sense of peace would ultimately surface. I ran and I remembered how much they enjoyed being in those same mountains the summer before.
It was a healing time and space for me that also became the base of my training for the Houston Marathon (26.2 miles) that I ran on January 20. What I learned during my months of training for my first marathon, is that the short daily runs are as important as the longer weekly runs. Running each day helps train our minds and body that, "yes, we're getting up to run again." It helps build muscle memory so we have better form, it helps learn about pacing for different distances. The longer runs became a prize at the end of the week. I would finally, for the longer runs, get to go spend a couple of hours running through what's left of the Charlie's Pasture trail, and out that new big sidewalk along 361, and on the beach. On those longer runs, I would pay attention to how much water and food to consume to sustain me. I would also learn that, "I can do this." The shorter daily runs, and the longer weekly runs added up, so that when I got to the starting line in that city where I spent so many years of my young adult life, I knew I would be able to finish.
As I preached in a recent sermon, "I'm not ok, but I'm getting better." My favorite prayer time right now is my run time. I pray a simple mantra that allows me to keep rhythm, and "pray without ceasing" as St. Paul and J.D. Salinger taught in their writing. The emotions that surface are already known to God, and they become clear to me as I run. All of the training was important--it sustained me through that long run in Houston, and it sustains me in the other, metaphorical endurance runs of life. The loss of my nieces and the loss of life as I knew it before Harvey are still with me, and will remain with me. I will keep moving forward doing the holy practices that I have found help me to keep going: Prayer, exercise, reflection, and community.
Toward the end of the marathon, around mile 21, the hope of finishing became a reality. I had enough energy, I knew what the road ahead was going to be like, and then, suddenly, I got in touch with those summer runs in the Smoky Mountains. I remembered where my training had started, and I wept. I didn't stop running, or even slow down. I knew how to run with tears. I knew I could keep going, and I did. I ran through it, across the finish line with tears on my smiling , salt-crusted cheeks. I thanked God, and I knew my nieces were cheering for me.
Less than eight months after Hurricane Harvey, two of my nieces died less than two months apart. It still doesn't seem real, and I've written about them elsewhere--but that's what I carried with me, and my family and I still carry the grief of losing Beatrice and Erin. On my runs in the Smokey Mountains, I would let that emotion out. When I felt anger, I would allow the anger to surge through me as I pushed forward and wore myself out. When I felt sadness, I would take a slower run, and allow the tears to fall when they were ready. When I didn't know what I was feeling, I would allow the confusion to settle in, and take a new trail, explore further than I had gone before--I would wrestle with the nagging and unanswerable "Why?" question and sometimes a sense of peace would ultimately surface. I ran and I remembered how much they enjoyed being in those same mountains the summer before.It was a healing time and space for me that also became the base of my training for the Houston Marathon (26.2 miles) that I ran on January 20. What I learned during my months of training for my first marathon, is that the short daily runs are as important as the longer weekly runs. Running each day helps train our minds and body that, "yes, we're getting up to run again." It helps build muscle memory so we have better form, it helps learn about pacing for different distances. The longer runs became a prize at the end of the week. I would finally, for the longer runs, get to go spend a couple of hours running through what's left of the Charlie's Pasture trail, and out that new big sidewalk along 361, and on the beach. On those longer runs, I would pay attention to how much water and food to consume to sustain me. I would also learn that, "I can do this." The shorter daily runs, and the longer weekly runs added up, so that when I got to the starting line in that city where I spent so many years of my young adult life, I knew I would be able to finish.
As I preached in a recent sermon, "I'm not ok, but I'm getting better." My favorite prayer time right now is my run time. I pray a simple mantra that allows me to keep rhythm, and "pray without ceasing" as St. Paul and J.D. Salinger taught in their writing. The emotions that surface are already known to God, and they become clear to me as I run. All of the training was important--it sustained me through that long run in Houston, and it sustains me in the other, metaphorical endurance runs of life. The loss of my nieces and the loss of life as I knew it before Harvey are still with me, and will remain with me. I will keep moving forward doing the holy practices that I have found help me to keep going: Prayer, exercise, reflection, and community.Toward the end of the marathon, around mile 21, the hope of finishing became a reality. I had enough energy, I knew what the road ahead was going to be like, and then, suddenly, I got in touch with those summer runs in the Smoky Mountains. I remembered where my training had started, and I wept. I didn't stop running, or even slow down. I knew how to run with tears. I knew I could keep going, and I did. I ran through it, across the finish line with tears on my smiling , salt-crusted cheeks. I thanked God, and I knew my nieces were cheering for me.
God bless you James.
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