TRUE STORIES (iii)
When I was in fifth grade, they made us run a mile in P.E. class. Since you already know that I was a little bit pudgy, and not exactly given to physical activity, I’m sure you can imagine how well the call to run vigorously around the track several times went over with me. It went over like an atom bomb. I’m pretty sure they told us a couple days in advance— maybe they expected that kids would stay after school and run laps just for fun, to prepare!—and I definitely remember the day before coming home and thinking to myself: crap.
It took me sixteen minutes to run one mile. If you’re not acquainted with running speeds, taking sixteen minutes to run one mile falls somewhere between ‘exceptionally slow’ and ‘not actually moving.’ Nowadays, I do a mile in about 9.5 minutes; fleet-footed seminarian Zach can do a mile in about 7 minutes, if he wants to break a sweat. But it took me sixteen, agonizing, huffing and puffing minutes. My friend Tyler, a very fast runner, lapped me sometime between minutes 5 and 7. He may have actually screamed “MEEP MEEP” as he passed me.
Grade school is a ruthless introduction to social Darwinism. The weak stay with their own kind; the strong prey upon the weak; the weak prey upon the weaker. I was one of two fat kids in my fifth grade class; the other one was a girl. I don’t remember which one of us finished the mile first—I’m sure we were both towards the back of the pack—but I remember thinking, “OK. David. You’re going to do really terribly at this run. But you can at least beat the other fat kid!” When you know you can’t really excel, you try to compensate by making sure the few people further down the ladder than you at least know their place.
One of my parents’ favorite verses of Scripture is Philippians 4:13, “For I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I’d been grousing about having to run this mile to my mother earlier that week, and I’m pretty sure that she quoted it to me, probably encouraging me to remember that God was with me even in PE class. (Which, in retrospect, was probably a pretty important move pastorally; I’d be willing to bet I’m not the only person who’s ever despaired of God’s existence while attempting to climb a rope ladder or run a mile.) And I did quote it to myself, out loud, through increasingly short breaths, as I ran: “I can do all things (gasp) through Christ (gasp) who strengthens me. I can do all things (gasp) through Christ (gasp) who strengthens me.”
I’m not sure what I expected to accomplish by quoting that Scripture to myself. I don't know if I had the most reasonable expectations: would the run seem shorter? Would I move faster? Would teacher, miraculously, wave his hands in the air and say, “ah, forget it, just stop running!” None of these things happened. I still a pudgy nerd-child running laps, only now I was quoting Scripture to myself. So, as was (is) my wont in times of frustration or stress, I started swearing. “Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. Fuckshit. Fuckfuckfuck.”
Only I didn’t want to just swear, and cease preaching Scripture to myself. So, in an interesting adaptation of the text, I mixed my curses in with Paul’s own words: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Shitfuck. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Shitfuck. Fuck. I can do all things…” I said that to myself over and over again for the last few minutes of my sixteen-minute odyssey, until I crossed the finish line and collapsed into a breathless nerd-heap.
Story of my life.
Many are the long miles I’ve run, in one way or another, while clinging to the reality of God’s presence and power and love for me. Sometimes, Paul’s promise—that God is alive and at work in me and through me, helping me grow and overcome obstacles I never thought possible—seems incredibly real and powerful and persuasive. And sometimes there’s just the sound of me huffing and puffing and cursing out loud.
And sometimes—maybe most of the time—there are both sounds at once, like two different conversations going on in my head. My prayers and my longing for God and my desire for peace and my frustration and anger and my embarrassment and my skeptical, questioning heart are all mixed up together like some bizarro spiritual milkshake.
I think for a long time my attitude about life’s challenges was: I hate this, but I’ll get through it. And when I’m done with it, I’ll thank God for helping me get through with it. But I’m discovering more these days that that’s a fool’s errand.
I once asked my mother what giving birth was like. She said, “Well, it’s like at soccer practice, when they make you run laps around the park. And you run three, and you think that you’re done, only when you get back, they tell you that you have to run another one. And then another one. And then another one.” Birth may be like that; my life definitely is like that. I'm always amused by my sense of entitlement in life; it's like I expect God to have set the overall level of difficulty for my life to 'medium' instead of 'hard.' But it doesn't work like that. In real life, as in birth, there's always another lap.
And I guess I’ve finally realized that unless I learn to be grateful for the good things that the challenges bring out—even, in some perverse way, to be grateful for the challenges themselves, to say, “I have to run a mile! Thank God!”—I’ll always be stuck waiting. Waiting for the day when I don’t have to run a mile, drag my ass out of bed, work for a living, have fights with friends, feel stressed out about one thing or another, feel confused, feel inadequate. That day is not coming. That day is not coming. All there is to do is run your mile as best you can, and learn, however slowly, to rejoice in the running.
It took me sixteen minutes to run one mile. If you’re not acquainted with running speeds, taking sixteen minutes to run one mile falls somewhere between ‘exceptionally slow’ and ‘not actually moving.’ Nowadays, I do a mile in about 9.5 minutes; fleet-footed seminarian Zach can do a mile in about 7 minutes, if he wants to break a sweat. But it took me sixteen, agonizing, huffing and puffing minutes. My friend Tyler, a very fast runner, lapped me sometime between minutes 5 and 7. He may have actually screamed “MEEP MEEP” as he passed me.
Grade school is a ruthless introduction to social Darwinism. The weak stay with their own kind; the strong prey upon the weak; the weak prey upon the weaker. I was one of two fat kids in my fifth grade class; the other one was a girl. I don’t remember which one of us finished the mile first—I’m sure we were both towards the back of the pack—but I remember thinking, “OK. David. You’re going to do really terribly at this run. But you can at least beat the other fat kid!” When you know you can’t really excel, you try to compensate by making sure the few people further down the ladder than you at least know their place.
One of my parents’ favorite verses of Scripture is Philippians 4:13, “For I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” I’d been grousing about having to run this mile to my mother earlier that week, and I’m pretty sure that she quoted it to me, probably encouraging me to remember that God was with me even in PE class. (Which, in retrospect, was probably a pretty important move pastorally; I’d be willing to bet I’m not the only person who’s ever despaired of God’s existence while attempting to climb a rope ladder or run a mile.) And I did quote it to myself, out loud, through increasingly short breaths, as I ran: “I can do all things (gasp) through Christ (gasp) who strengthens me. I can do all things (gasp) through Christ (gasp) who strengthens me.”
I’m not sure what I expected to accomplish by quoting that Scripture to myself. I don't know if I had the most reasonable expectations: would the run seem shorter? Would I move faster? Would teacher, miraculously, wave his hands in the air and say, “ah, forget it, just stop running!” None of these things happened. I still a pudgy nerd-child running laps, only now I was quoting Scripture to myself. So, as was (is) my wont in times of frustration or stress, I started swearing. “Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. Fuckshit. Fuckfuckfuck.”
Only I didn’t want to just swear, and cease preaching Scripture to myself. So, in an interesting adaptation of the text, I mixed my curses in with Paul’s own words: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Shitfuck. I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me. Shitfuck. Fuck. I can do all things…” I said that to myself over and over again for the last few minutes of my sixteen-minute odyssey, until I crossed the finish line and collapsed into a breathless nerd-heap.
Story of my life.
Many are the long miles I’ve run, in one way or another, while clinging to the reality of God’s presence and power and love for me. Sometimes, Paul’s promise—that God is alive and at work in me and through me, helping me grow and overcome obstacles I never thought possible—seems incredibly real and powerful and persuasive. And sometimes there’s just the sound of me huffing and puffing and cursing out loud.
And sometimes—maybe most of the time—there are both sounds at once, like two different conversations going on in my head. My prayers and my longing for God and my desire for peace and my frustration and anger and my embarrassment and my skeptical, questioning heart are all mixed up together like some bizarro spiritual milkshake.
I think for a long time my attitude about life’s challenges was: I hate this, but I’ll get through it. And when I’m done with it, I’ll thank God for helping me get through with it. But I’m discovering more these days that that’s a fool’s errand.
I once asked my mother what giving birth was like. She said, “Well, it’s like at soccer practice, when they make you run laps around the park. And you run three, and you think that you’re done, only when you get back, they tell you that you have to run another one. And then another one. And then another one.” Birth may be like that; my life definitely is like that. I'm always amused by my sense of entitlement in life; it's like I expect God to have set the overall level of difficulty for my life to 'medium' instead of 'hard.' But it doesn't work like that. In real life, as in birth, there's always another lap.
And I guess I’ve finally realized that unless I learn to be grateful for the good things that the challenges bring out—even, in some perverse way, to be grateful for the challenges themselves, to say, “I have to run a mile! Thank God!”—I’ll always be stuck waiting. Waiting for the day when I don’t have to run a mile, drag my ass out of bed, work for a living, have fights with friends, feel stressed out about one thing or another, feel confused, feel inadequate. That day is not coming. That day is not coming. All there is to do is run your mile as best you can, and learn, however slowly, to rejoice in the running.