This Sunday morning, before we come together to worship, over five hundred people will be lacing up their running shoes in Clinton. They will stand around in the cool fall morning, stretching, remembering messages of support, queueing up playlists to keep them motivated… some will fight with safety pins to get their number to stay attached to their shirt or jacket. Some might wonder if they are even going to finish this race at all.
Early in my life, I realized that I might not be built for speed. I let that discourage me for a number of years until the choice was made for me in Air Force Basic Training: I would be a runner. I ran.
It would be an exaggeration to say I love running like the people racing this weekend do, but there is something contagiously jubilant about race days. For me, it’s not about the superhuman people doing high kicks and stuff at the front of the group. They are awesome, of course. They will set personal best times, even world record times… The real drama happens in the middle and the back, where people who have overcome injuries, cancers, break ups, and any other setback woke up one day and said “you know what? Forget this. I’m running a half marathon.”
By the time we are finishing our worship service, runners will be streaming past our front steps to the finish line. I hope you’ll join me in praying them onward.
Grace and Peace,