while one of my favorite delusions involves exuding an aura of athleticism, truth be told i’m not a natural born runner. i lack both the fleet-footedness and the passion, rendering me—at best—a reluctant jogger.
still, most every morning i lace up grey nikes and trot out the door. it's not so much that i yearn for the miles ahead, but more that i can’t bear to be the version of me that wouldn’t go.
i’m always glad for the run after, but only about half the time do i enjoy the during. the other fifty percent i’m dying an asphyxiated, sweaty death, and the sole reason i keep plodding on is that i’ve got to get home somehow, and running seems faster than crawling.
but this morning. oh, this morning.
this morning ‘twas just God and me and a september wind, full of bluster and personality. ‘twas a rattling field of corn stalk skeletons, clouds so buoyant they carried the sky. ‘twas cracked sidewalks and flats of soybeans brushed ocher by the sunrise.
inevitably, somewhere between miles three and five, i can feel a loosening, a surrender: me yielding my wizened heart to a Father who kneads it warm again. and if my insides are pliable when i angle back into my driveway, pace and distance become utterly beside the point. it’s been a good run.
one worth repeating over and again, in spite of me.