it hurts. oh God it hurts.
my muscles are screaming, my lungs are burning and i can feel every blister on every toe rupturing, swelling, rupturing again.
and i can’t see the finish line. is it ever gonna appear? no matter how much i strain i can’t see it, and maybe this is all a joke after all?
You said come, and I came, but maybe there is no finish line.
i thought i signed up for a nice breezy 5k and now i’m in one of those ghastly run for days ultra marathons that i used to joke about running but in my heart i knew only elite athletes should attempt.
i am not elite. far from it. i’m pudgy and out of breath and my shoes are wrong and my shoulder hurts and i’m not positive but i think i’ve been tasting blood with each breath the last few hours.
and yeah, i’ve grown new muscles on this long road, the endless steps and escalating switchbacks, but they’re not enough to make any of this easier.
i’ve been out of water so long my tongue swells. i can’t remember the last time i had a sip. is there at least a rest stop somewhere up ahead? is this the final brutal dash to the line? or worse, what if it isn’t?
and the heat. the sun cooks me, bakes me, rolls me over a spit like i’m about to be someone’s dinner.
You said come, so i came. and yeah, technically you didn’t say it was a 5k when we started, but i thought that’s what You meant. it’s not Your fault i was so unprepared, not really. i guess.
i can’t blame You that what i expected has turned out to be so far from reality. but when i tell You i’m done, You say nothing. when i ask how much longer, You stay silent. so this time i yell it. then i yell it louder.
how much longer?
and still You are silent.
i want to lay down and weep but i don’t have the energy to bend. and i know for certain if i hit the ground at this point i’ll never rise.
and You say come, so i come.
i want to give up but You keep calling and it’s insistent and You’re trustworthy and so i’ll keep coming because i know i’m coming to You. i will, but i’m telling You, right now, in this moment, i can’t do another day of this. i don’t even think i can do another hour. maybe even a minute.
it hurts. oh God it hurts.
Last night I dreamed of being trapped, unable to exit Turkey — then I woke this morning and poof, I was instantly safe, in bed in my parent’s house in Idaho. In the recovery tent, as it were, heat blanket wrapped around my shoulders, electrolytes in each hand, friends massaging life back into deadened limbs. It’s disorienting, to say the least.
But we actually made it to the finish line. We made it!
It takes my breath away.
If you’ve followed my writing at all, you know I write my altars of remembrance. I wrote the above piece a couple months ago while we were still in the thick of it trying to get out of Turkey, and just reading it brings me to my knees in gratitude.
And that’s the point for me — record to remember — write it down so I can later dig the hope out of the memory. Hold it in my hand, savor it on my tongue, and be sustained by the continued, repetitious, unending faithfulness of a good Father. Then, and only then, can I keep going through the next leg of this lifelong race.
Perseverance. It’s a word that’s been bitter on my tongue this past year. It’s a word that reminds me God prefers obedience to sacrifice, and most of the time obedience is not the safe and even path that skips blithely through the daisies.
I’m certain you can close your eyes and remember a race you never thought you’d finish. Maybe you’re on one now. But He says to us come, dear friend, so by His strength, let’s remind ourselves of the multitude of reasons for which we can cling to hope, and let’s keep coming!