Roughly a year ago I attempted to run the Rock n’ Roll half marathon without any training at all. I’ll be honest…. It wasn’t the brightest idea I’ve ever had. I signed up to run it as a bonding experience with my dad and in a Dory-like fashion, completely forgot about it shortly after deleting the registration confirmation email. When I say I hadn’t prepared for the race at all, I mean that I didn’t have tennis shoes and couldn’t find my running shorts. If from that information you gather that the mileage I was prepared to run was 0.0, you are correct.
After he discovered that I was astonishingly unprepared, dad advised me to load up on carbs, wear high socks, and pace myself. I smiled along and ignored everything he said. If I was going to do a 13.1 mile race, I wanted to lose weight I already had… not gain weight by stuffing my face with pasta the night before. Plus, high socks make me look like I have the cankles of a sumo wrestler. Thanks, but no thanks. I decided to stick with what I thought was best.
About ten seconds after passing up the 5 km marker, I began to realize what death feels like. I had run as fast as I could as soon as the gun went off under some delusion that I was actually going to beat the people that had trained and was paying for that decision (along with the choice of fashion-forward socks and a smoothie for dinner the night before) with fumes for energy, debilitating cramps in the soles of my feet, and bleeding blisters on both ankles. It didn’t take me long to realize that there was NO WAY I was going to finish the race without help, and I swallowed my pride to let dad come to the rescue. Instead of saying I told you so, he helped me through each tear-filled complaint. He found Band-Aids at a mile marker for my blisters, made me eat disgusting chocolate gel that runners eat because apparently running by itself isn’t awful enough, and came up with a plan to run 4 minutes and walk for 7 until we finished.
As we approached the final half mile, I was debating what hurt more: every single muscle in my body or my ego for paying big bucks to torture myself. As I was about to call it quits, my dad picked up on my level of desperation through the swearing, complaining, and tears and spoke nothing but encouragements to me until the end was in view. I collapsed in the first open space I saw after crossing the finish line and looked up moments later to see my father holding both of his hands out to me: one was empty so he could help hoist me back on my feet and the other was handing me my hard-earned medal.
Around the time that what I affectionately refer to as the “Rock n’ Roll debacle” took place, I was accepted on the World Race. During the process of fundraising and explaining to my loved ones why I was abandoning them for 11 months, I had to answer a variety of questions ranging from the practical, “How are you going to raise over $16,000 in six months?” to the ludicrous, “If you catch Ebola and die, will your parents have to travel overseas to bury you?”
There was one question that seemed silly but that stumped me. When people inquired as to why it is called the World Race when I wasn’t competing against anyone, I would spout out fabricated responses that led people to believe that I actually knew what I was getting into (a laughable concept now). If I’m putting all of my cards on the table though, it wasn’t until I was retelling the half marathon saga recently that I discovered the answer.
Contrary to the assumption of most people, the World Race was never named after the race of a first-place finisher. Instead, the title refers to the race of the participant hobbling into the final stretch, drenched with sweat and looking as if they might keel over any second. This year is aptly named after a race such as my half marathon experience.
I started out the world race just as prideful as I began the half marathon. I remember thinking after training camp that my race was going to be a breeze compared to the other racers that had more baggage from their past. I ignored advice about making sure I spent alone time with God each day, justifying my lack of bible reading by saying that if I wasn’t close to God in the first place, I wouldn’t have come on the race. I expressed a desire to want to grow and change throughout the year, but if I was honest with myself, deep down I didn’t think I needed to change anything. My overall attitude was that I came on the race to help people, not because I needed any help myself.
It was less than 3 weeks into the race when I found myself crying alone in my freezing tent wishing I had purchased the thicker sleeping bag my dad wanted me to buy and trying to swish out the water that was leaking in from the torrential downpour outside (rainy season in Guatemala is no joke). The feelings of missing the comforts and people of home and not feeling close to my squad came flooding in, and hitchhiking back to Louisiana started to look appealing.
In that moment, the realization smacked me over the head- or maybe it was the hail hitting my tent- that there was an ice cube’s chance in hell that I was completing the World Race out of my own strength. The only way I was going to finish out my stint in Guatemala and the remaining 10 months after that was by setting down my pride, admitting to God that I needed his help, and completely surrendering my year to Him.
Similar to my own father during the half marathon, God is a good father who knows what is best for us, but until we admit that we don’t have all of the answers and can’t go another step on our own, we can’t fully receive the benefits and blessings that come from having a dependent, genuine relationship with Him.
I just began month 10 and can hear the cheers from the finish line. Even though I’m hanging on to God for all of my strength and am hobbling a little, I have never felt stronger. Each mile that I’ve traveled with Jesus has further taught me what it means to fully live in a loving relationship with Him. I’ve learned that Jesus is the only true necessity because when everything— friends, family, beds, running water, wifi, etc— is taken away, I still have a reason to celebrate. And on July 25 when I step away from those strangers that have become my family and cross that finish line, Jesus will be there proudly handing my medal to me with one hand and reaching out with the other to help me take the next step.
You don’t win the World Race by coming in first. You win the World Race by learning that the only route to a life of fulfillment and meaning is through running it with Jesus by your side and understanding more with each step how much He loves you. Once you learn to live out that love, there is no race you won’t win.
