So, I run frequently.
Normally it’s somewhere around 5 days a week.
I get asked if I enjoy it, and I say yes, but truly it’s quite complicated.
When I start a long run, I begin by anticipating this thing my ankles do right when I get going--its like they give out for a second and its painful, but it happens quickly and passes, then I am good for another ten minutes. Somewhere in the middle of the second mile I want to stop very badly, but instead I suck it up and finish, then I keep going anywhere from 3 to 5 miles and everything is pretty steady, including the pain, but it feels good. Then about 15 yards from my stopping point, things get rough. I just want to die a little, but instead, I sprint. I book it until I’m breathing so hard I could give Darth Vader a run for his money.
I usually run around the track of the football stadium at night. I have gone to one game in the past two years, so I figure I should visit it often during its off-season to let it know I still care. Plus, there are always ultimate Frisbee players out as well, which makes me feel safer at night.
So, back to the last sprint.
When I finish I know you are supposed to walk or “cool-down”
Well, whatever. I just collapse.
And here is the part I love.
I lie there staring at the stars.
I’m in this state of exhaustion/euphoria right before the endorphins kick in and when I stare upwards, if I focus my eyes the right way, it feels like I am balancing the night sky on the tip of my nose. As if I have to be careful how hard I breathe otherwise things might slip off balance.
This is the moment I find God so frustratingly close I can hardly stand it.
So close, in fact, that I feel like we are having an invisible staring contest.
So close that I don’t find it ridiculous to ask him to give me a quick tour of space
and even promise that I would keep it a secret.
So close that I don’t have much to say so I just sigh and hope he understands it
So close that I am able to see for a split second the shortness of the 80 years or so I have on this earth and beg for it to go quickly or for Him to come back sooner.
Then the moment passes and I get distracted by being able to see my own breath
and get too cold to lie there any longer,
look at my watch and tell myself its late
So, I get up slowly and jog back home.
and do the same thing the next day
and no matter how many times that moment happens
there is nothing that feels routine about it.
