When I was in second grade, my elementary school hosted an event known as “The Pumpkin Run.” This entailed all of us kiddos running a marathon (read: a mile) around the school grounds. Through the nature trail, a few laps around the playground and kickball field…you know, standard second grade race stuff. All our parents were to come and watch us run. Our reward was a prize (I think? Probably candy I’m sure), and we were all very excited.
And I’m a pretty competitive gal, even as a 7 year-old. I whizzed my way past the basketball court and through the nature trail and was bounding across the street when BONK. Toe hit the curb and my knee scraped the pavement. I was out of the running.
There were of course some tears as I was met by a parent and taken into the nurse’s office. There was a big ‘ol bandaid to cover my grave injury. But there was also a little girl who was. not. done.
No. With all the willpower and courage I could muster, I headed back outside determined to finish the race set before me. I had two laps around the kickball field to go, and everyone else was already finished. But I did those laps, knee all bandaged up (and a dramatic limp in my run to prove it), and I finished that race. Because I couldn’t not finish it.
Everyone applauded my tremendous feat as I crossed the finish line. This girl was not letting a curb keep her from doing what she wanted to do.
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Yesterday at church, our pastor closed his sermon with a story about an Olympic marathon runner from Tanzania named John Stephen Akhwari. Back in 1968 in Mexico City, Akhwari fell about halfway through the race, hitting his shoulder and dislocating his knee.
But he finished that race. An hour after the first place runner crossed the finish line. He is quoted saying, “My country did not send me 5,000 miles to start the race; they sent me 5,000 miles to finish the race.“
It was at this point in the sermon that my mom looked over at me and smiled, “just like our little Pumpkin Runner.” Lol. Granted, I didn’t travel 5,000 miles or run an actual marathon, but you get the idea.
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I’ve spent the last couple of days reflecting on this idea of running our race. The Lord’s told us all about this. He’s instructed us to forget what lies behind and strain toward what’s ahead, pressing on to our goal (Phil 3:13-14). To finish the race, we must fight the good fight and keep our faith (2 Tim 4:7), running with endurance the race set before us (Hebrews 12:1). We don’t arrive at the finish line until we see Christ face-to-face. I don’t know about you, but I’d limp with a lot more than a scraped knee to get to that finish line.
The past month and a half since training camp have felt like an obstacle course. I’ve jumped through tires and sludged in mud (figuratively, people!) but I can see the World Race on the other side. I’ve had days where I was so anxious about financial support that my chest was tight and my appetite nonexistent. I’ve cried over countless, seemingly inconsequential things (e.g. passport photos). I’ve laughed while walking along the beach and dancing with friends at a wedding. I’ve raised over $2,000 in a two week time frame.
Wow, my God is good.
Launch is in 11 days. Let me spell that out for you–ELEVEN. Like, that’s crazy talk! I absolutely cannot wait.
When I was accepted for the Race, I reached out to a friend to ask if he wanted to join my support team. “Absolutely,” he replied. “Just promise me you’ll finish the full Race.”
Absolutely.
Ain’t no curb getting in my way!
K
