You guys, I ran that 10K and it was so so SO much fun. If you had told me how genuinely happy I would feel at the end, after finishing a little more slowly than the time I had mentally labeled as "The Slowest I Could Possibly Finish Without Mortification," I wouldn't have believed you. But it's true: I was thrilled. Immediately after I crossed the finish line they handed me a finisher medal. I have been scornful about finisher medals in the past, calling them further evidence that we are living in Self-Esteem Nation, but I put that sucker around my neck and kept it there the whole way home.
When I walked in the door Stella said, "Mama! Did you win?" I told her no but she seemed to have a hard time getting her mind around the answer. "No, really, Mama," she asked me again, "did you win your race?" And again: "Didn't you win?" The boys thought this was a hoot. "Wait, Mom," they took turns saying, "are you sure you didn't win?" It was funnier the first 12 times than the last 35, but it has made me think a lot about winning.
I have often thought about St. Paul's exhortation to run "so as to win." It's the title of an old blog post and it appears in at least one other. Always, always before now, I used that verse as a stick with which to beat myself. You're too slow, Jamie Gladly. You're too afraid to suffer. You're not working hard enough.
But OH you guys, it has hit me -- not like a ton of bricks, because that would be too violent, but more like the stunning sunrise I watched unfurling in coral and gold on the way to the race -- so I should say it has dawned on me that I have been thinking about it in entirely the wrong way.
Beating yourself up is not a winning strategy, either in running or in the pursuit of heaven.
Winning takes time and preparation. You can't just show up on the day of the race and expect to do your best. You put in the effort one piece at a time for weeks in advance. You can spend years figuring out what your limits are and how to nudge yourself a little further. Holiness takes time.
If you really want to win against a tough field, you are going to organize your life around that goal. You will eat like someone preparing for a big race; you will prioritize like someone preparing for a big race. Holiness takes thought.
Winning demands that you recognize your limits. You will hurt yourself in a hurry if you just try to gut it out. Every athlete struggles with something; ditto for every saint in the making. Running so as to win means working with your limitations. Holiness doesn't mean we are flawless from the get-go; it means we are willing to be transformed.
Winning also requires you to play to your strengths. I was surprised to discover how much I love running intervals. (Okay, now I am feeling self-conscious about calling it a strength. If there is ever an athletic event that requires me to do a backbend crabwalk while reciting the Iliad in Greek, I will own that event. They can just go ahead and smelt me a platinum medal for that one, thanks. Running, not so much.) It is a deeply good thing for me to find joy in running intervals. I just need to keep it in balance: if I run so hard in the interval workout that I can't finish the endurance workout a few days later, I need to adjust. This same kind of balancing act is an essential part of the spiritual life: appreciate your strengths, yes, and remember too your obligation to keep working on your weaknesses. Holiness is about becoming more whole.
Winning is easier when the crowd is cheering you on. The first mile of the race flew by -- I hardly noticed my aching sacrum at first. I thought, "Hey! All I need to boost my motivation at home is 3000 people to run with!" And then at the finish line -- well, this is kind of sappy, but it makes me cry to remember the crowd. A spectator struck up a conversation with me and I told her, "I thought all week that I should just stay home. I thought, 'I'm too slow.'" And she said, with obvious sincerity, "Oh, no." She said, "It's really awesome that you came here and finished your race." And you guys, that makes me think of heaven, and of the brothers and sisters there who are cheering us on. It gives me hope that they are pulling for us to finish strong, that they are not saying, "Too bad you're so SLOW and LAZY." Holiness unfolds most easily within the communion of saints.
This sounds like a stupid Nike commercial, but winning is partially about attitude. I spent all last week in a dither, you guys. Should I stay or should I go? Was I going to hurt myself badly if I tried to run? Was I going to leave pelvis shrapnel all over the course when it exploded? Those are the saner thoughts from last week, actually. I never thought -- I mean, it literally never once crossed my mind -- that I would have so much fun! I was just going to tough it out in the name of finishing what I started, and I accidentally had a blast doing it! My sacrum hurt all the way through, but I'm so glad I ran anyway. Here again is that truth I ought to know by know: Fear is the enemy. Just show up. Holiness calls us out of fear and into trust.
I didn't come close to winning, of course -- I was pleased enough to be solidly in the top half of my age group. But I drove home through the stubble-stippled fields feeling eager to do it again. I wanted my family to be there next time, to soak up the joyful atmosphere at the finish. It's hard for me to explain the happy-with-a-scrim-of-tears feeling that followed me all day. There's something extraordinary about being around thousands of people who are running their hearts out after weeks of planning and effort. It made me want to keep running, to run harder. Holiness is contagious.
Recent Comments