in the beginning
Slowly we begin, feeling rumpled, and, somehow, still buried under covers, even though we, in our performance series shirts, have just stepped off the porch and into the first gentle light of morning. I look down at my running shoes, at the edges dirty with road dust, assessing, as though the shoes will be the thing that makes the difference. Kevin’s shoes glow in the diminishing shadows, a bold highlighter yellow. We joke about their magic as I tap the training app I’ve been using.
“20 minutes today,” I say, “and no walk breaks.” We share a mutual sigh, feeling no need for elaboration. 20 continuous minutes of anything difficult feel so much longer than 20 minutes with the promise of rest, and we feel tired already.
Many times, I’ve trained to run at various distances, and the first day the walk breaks disappear, I always feel unprepared, wondering how I’ll manage. I’ve known that twist of fear, and I’ve known the truth on the other side. Still, I can’t slip past the burden.
Maybe, in the context of voluntary exercise, this represents an insignificant struggle, but smaller training grounds give way to larger ones, and so, scanning the wispy, rose-gold clouds, collecting in my mind the gems dripping from the tips of late summer leaves, I think of other races I’ve run.
It’s funny how the inescapable feeling of human inadequacy can engrave memories. I remember the moment my parents left after each of our children were born, though the consistency of my self-doubt has blurred my recollection into one event that encompasses all three. I stand at the door still feeling the kiss my mom pressed into my forehead as she left, holding vulnerability in my arms, my thumb sliding over a newborn cheek, my tears dripping onto tender skin, and I wonder every time, How can I possibly do this? For me, so many of those moments have happened in the context of mothering. I could not, to my thinking, handle autism or diabetes or epilepsy, but in other contexts, I also felt completely unprepared to teach or train leaders or adequately support hurting friends. Each time I sit down to write, I wonder again how I could possibly share something that matters to anyone else.
Of course, over time I’ve learned a secret to which I must intentionally return in larger contexts, that vulnerability is the condition of humanity and possibility is the truth of God. Not only that He carries me across the miles, but that, little by little, He has trained my legs to move.
As we begin to climb our first hill, I feel like mud has trapped my legs up to the knee. Silently, I urge my body up, up, up, but the steps feel too small, as though I’m progressing by inches. In my heart, I know that this is what it is to begin, that at first, the muscles are cold, the breaths are too shallow, the journey to higher ground feels impossibly slow.
“This hill,” I say to Kevin. “My muscles are still so cold.”
He nods, agreeing, and for a while, we commiserate about the genesis of everything. We talk about how much we want to avoid the arduousness of getting limber and building momentum. The process feels so difficult and long that it often feels easier to remain in stasis. I say I’m getting a little set in my ways, but that’s just the short way of saying I don’t feel capable of the work it takes to start something new.
And then finally, having pressed past the beginning slog, I start taking deeper breaths, breaths so wild and full I forget about trying to breathe. As my muscles warm to their work, I stop thinking so much about trying to move. I stop spending my energy wondering if I can and I just do. I just run. I keep on running.
I’ve experienced this more times than I can count, and not just running out beneath the trees that begin to drop their leaves in anticipation of another season. In those early days of mothering, I began to wash and feed and love my babies on my own. I began, slowly, to count carbs and give medicines. I began, and I’ll tell you, it was a slog, to make schedules and drive to therapy and drag sentences out of silent mouths. The first miles felt so draining for me, with my cold, stiff muscles and all my questions about how, but eventually, I warmed to the work and I moved from trying to do it to doing it and then, to the keeping on.
“Time to cool down,” the digital voice on my phone says finally, but by now, Kevin and I have settled into more peaceful exertion. The run still feels like good hard work, but we have begun to recognize that, much to our surprise yet again, our training has actually readied us for the continuous effort.
“It’s funny how, in the face of a new challenge, I just can’t quite believe the training has done it’s work,” I say to Kevin, as we ease into a walk.
After all this time, for as long as I’ve rehearsed God’s promises to equip and empower me, I still have to actively choose to trust His faithfulness. I still have to acknowledge that I don’t quite recognize all of the increments in His plans for provision. I still gasp in wonder when, as it turns out, He has made me ready–in the very best way–for what lies ahead of me.
