Lessons From a (Hard) Half Marathon

From the Archives

This post was originally published on my former blog, Glance Through the Lens, on May 5, 2019.

Remember when I said on the eve of 2019 that I was going to “leave it all on the field” and run a marathon?

Ha. Good one.

I (very) quickly realized a few days into training that a marathon was biting off way more than I could chew. Deciding to do the Silo District Half Marathon instantly gave me so much more peace, so I dove into training with all the confidence in the world. I had finished one half before (and attempted two others, but that’s a different story), so I was more than ready, right?

Week one was great. Awesome, in fact. That five-miler on Saturday was the best run I’d had in weeks. I felt good, my pace was exactly where I wanted it, it was cold (my favorite running weather), and pounding along the lovely Brazos River made my heart pitter patter for Waco all over again.

The second week, I got plagued by…something. The doctor didn’t say it was the flu, but that’s sure what it felt like. My “high” from the week before catapulted into the asphalt on which I so badly wanted to run.

I won’t bore you with a play-by-play of my training season, so I’ll just say this: the next four months of training were hard. It felt like I couldn’t enjoy two days of a victory before falling flat on my face, and oftentimes, I was kicked again when I was already down. (I’m specifically thinking of how my Achilles started to feel tight just after I got past a weird, few-week period of abnormally stiff quads, or how my time randomly started to slow down by about two minutes, no matter how hard I tried to speed back up to my normal pace.)

Every other long run was an absolute nightmare. The seven-miler felt like a slow-motion saunter through a flowery meadow, with a stupid grin plastered across my face, while my eight-miler was one of the most emotionally draining runs of my life, to the point I sat on a curb for a few moments and cried.

Yeah.

“What is wrong with me?” was a thought I had often.

For whatever reason, this training season kicked my mental stamina to the curb, and almost every single run felt like an emotional battle I couldn’t win.

And if all of that wasn’t enough, I got food poisoning two weeks before race day, which essentially put me out of commission for the week leading up to the big day. I hate, hate being sick, and my body just felt completely broken. (Not to mention I was battling a severe case of homesickness that week, and just about anything would set me off into a puddle of tears.)

I was annoyed. I was tired. And I was confused. After all these years of running, after all these frustrating training seasons for half marathons, why was this happening? Why was this a barrier I couldn’t seem to overcome?

I’ll skip to the end. I ran my half marathon on April 28th in Waco.

It was a struggle. My time was a solid 25 minutes slower than I wanted it to be. I walked way more than I had intended. My body experienced weird things during the race I wasn’t prepared for.

I had this vision of me sprinting to the finish line, arms pumping in the air, big smile on my face with a big, fat PR shining on the giant clock.

Instead, I flailed my blistered toes and aching body across the finish line, feeling slightly faint and totally defeated.

But ya know what? An incredible thing happened.

With all haste, God began to heal me.

It started pretty quickly after I finished. While I was wobbling around, having a little pity party for myself, I watched as people of all shapes and sizes, backgrounds, speeds and ages crossed the finish line. Some were hand in hand with friends, some were sprinting in victory, some were sprinting in complete agony. Some were walking, some were smiling, some were limping. But they were doing it, and they were doing it well. They were finishing with nothing left on the field. They gave it their all.

And then at work over the next few days, I had the honor of getting to speak to some of the finishers. I won’t give details, but here’s what they all had in common: Despite every obstacle in their way, despite every tragedy that ambushed their life, despite any doubt that plagued their mind—they ran their race and they were proud of finishing well. They pressed forward in joy, even when it felt like their bodies or minds couldn’t go on. They ran on behalf of loved ones who couldn’t, and recognized that race day was so much bigger than just themselves.

I got teary talking to almost every person. They reminded me why I love to run. They spoke truths back into my heart that I had forgotten. Even after every trial they’ve faced to get here, there was a light in their voices. There was gratitude for the present and hope for the future.

And they humbled me. How could I ever be disappointed in myself when I had so much to be grateful for and had accomplished so much in the face of numerous little obstacles, when this was always supposed to be for God’s glory and not my own?

—-

I just finished rereading The Rest of God by Mark Buchanan (one of my all-time favorites), and there’s a part of the book that I can’t quite seem to shake. Buchanan talks through a story in the Bible that has popped up several times in my life over the past couple of years (by no accident, I’m sure)…

It’s the story of Jacob wrestling with God in Genesis 32. Do you remember it? It’s a weird and mysterious one, there’s no doubt about that. After clarity from the Holy Spirit and hearing a few, very wise leaders speak on the passage, I’m just now finally starting to understand the story’s significance, and I think the Lord is slowly etching its truths onto my heart.

Then Jacob was left alone, and a man wrestled with him until daybreak. When he saw that he had not prevailed against him, he touched the socket of his thigh; so the socket of Jacob’s thigh was dislocated while he wrestled with him. Then he said, “Let me go, for the dawn is breaking.” But he said, “I will not let you go unless you bless me.” So he said to him, “What is your name?” And he said, “Jacob.” He said, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel; for you have striven with God and with men and have prevailed.”  

Then Jacob asked him and said, “Please tell me your name.” But he said, “Why is it that you ask my name?” And he blessed him there. So Jacob named the place Peniel, for he said, “I have seen God face to face, yet my life has been preserved.” Now the sun rose upon him just as he crossed over Penuel, and he was limping on his thigh. Therefore, to this day the sons of Israel do not eat the sinew of the hip which is on the socket of the thigh, because he touched the socket of Jacob’s thigh in the sinew of the hip. –Genesis 32:24-32 (Emphasis mine.) 

At the beginning of the year, my pastor, John Durham, spoke on this passage. He reminded us of where Jacob came from heading into this wrestling match: he was a liar. A schemer. A coward. Jacob’s name means “heel holder,” in reference to holding his brother’s heel all the way out of the womb. Funny enough, it’s a good description of how Jacob lived his life—holding onto whoever could get him ahead of the game and grabbing at the things of the world that could never satisfy. Durham said:

“That liar deserved so much more than [just a limp]. And yet he limped away with his life. That’s the grace of God. Have you considered before your wounds (and we all have them) and your limps (and we all have them) are actually gifts from the hands of a grace Giver? Have you considered your wounds as the care and the grace of God that constantly drive us back into His presence?”

This wrestling match with God is the turning point of Jacob’s life. He’s grabbed ahold of God, and He doesn’t want to let go until God blesses Him. Woo, gives me chills every time.

“Lord, I will not let go until you bless me.”

Let’s circle back to Buchanan’s commentary on this story. He ties Jacob’s story into what he was feeling at the time of writing this book (during his Sabbatical). But after all of the pride and entitlement I tried to fight during this training season (and am still trying to put to death now), I understand Buchanan’s thoughts even more:

“God has revealed things about Himself that have pierced me. Things I thought I knew but didn’t. His holiness, for instance. In my increased quietness and watchfulness, I have glimpsed afresh God’s holiness, and it is a quality of harrowing beauty. I am ashamed at the times I have trivialized it. I am grieved at the times I have not stood still to let it scour me clean, sear my lips pure, burn me, and heal me.

And God has revealed things about me—or rather, hammer-locked me and forced me to reveal these things about myself—from which I would rather have kept running. These are things where He can’t bless me until He also wounds me.” (Emphasis mine.)

What if the “limp” I felt from my blistered feet and sore legs after the race—and the “limp” I felt in my heart from not being the kind of runner or athlete I wanted myself to be—was always meant to drive me back to the One who loves me and works through my weaknesses? What if the limp was always meant to strip me of my pride, to gently lift my chin to look upward at God and outward at those running alongside me?

This is an ongoing conversation I’m having with God, and I know myself well enough to know that tomorrow, I’m right back to pushing myself and feeding my competitive spirit. That’s not a bad thing. But maybe this time, I can try extending grace to myself. I can try seeing limps—in exercise and in every other part of life—as means to no end other than knowing God better. And isn’t that the point of life? Not to just talk about God but to talk to Him, to know Him? Isn’t that what Paul talked about in Philippians 3? “I count all things to be loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord…”

It’s true. There is nothing better. No matter how He wounds, convicts and humbles me, I will not let go.