Through a Glass, Darkly

I went running the other night. The last time I went running was in the spring 2001, when I was taking a jogging class. At UNCG. For credit. I even had to run in a race and everything. The goal in the class was to improve over the semester, and sense I had zero running skills to begin with, it wasn’t hard to improve, even just slightly. However, I never discovered any kind of joy in running (or jogging), so it’s not something I kept up with after the class was over. The other night, I made it through about half the neighborhood and walked the rest. I was pretty proud of myself. You have to start somewhere.

I don’t like running in general, though. It’s just not my thing. All that “push through the pain” stuff? It’s a load of crap. When I push through the pain, I get more pain. The other night, I was like, “If I push through this horrible cramp in my side, maybe it’ll go away!” Instead, it became an even more horrible cramp and I decided it was my body’s way of telling me that walking is fun. I think the runner’s high is a myth perpetuated by people who run so that they can get other people to run and then laugh at them. It’s a pyramid scheme, and I’m here to expose it for you all.

I had planned to go running this morning, and maybe my legs would feel better if I had, but I chickened out and just went walking instead. It was pretty cold, and I needed some old familiar comforting music, so I switched over to Rich Mullins. Although I used to listen to it constantly, these days I only pull out A Liturgy, a Legacy, and a Ragamuffin Band when I really need it, and today was one of those days.

I’ve got a lot on my mind right now, thoughts about my friends and my family and why relationships can be so complicated sometimes, why stuff that happened years ago can still be so hard. I did not have the easiest week last week or the easiest weekend, but listening to Rich helped. It’s almost as if I’m not just listening to the album today, but also every other time I’ve listened to it in the past. It anchors me, reminding me of the times I cried along with “Hold Me Jesus,” sang “The Color Green” in my car where no one could hear me, had “Peace” played at our wedding, went up the Statue of Liberty and thought about “Land of My Sojourn.” It’s one of the albums that has the most memories for me, both good and bad, and it makes me feel more stable somehow. I’ve expressed similar thoughts about singing hymns and making tomato juice, about how I feel they tie me into the body of Christ by taking me out of myself and reminding me how God has been faithful in the lives of his people in the past. This album, though, does that by tying me into my own faith. I see how I’ve changed and grown over the years, but I see how God has been there, too.