Two weekends ago during the Illinois Marathon, 14,000 runners passed by my 2-mile perch at the corner of Green and Race. Some aimed for 13.1 miles, others for the full 26.2. If the scenery in a city is the people, I got an eyeful.
After the wheelchair participants, the first able-bodied man, African, way out in front, pumped his lean muscles with the smoothness of a heron’s flight. Most of the early runners looked at home on the course. Some ran leaning forward. A few ran as if the wind were pushing them backwards.
Some of the runners sported the tiniest bras and briefs. Others looked like they’d pulled on the lounge-wear they found next to the bed on the floor. Some ran in pairs. Most ran alone. Several T-shirts proclaimed “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”
Most of them were under 40. A few were over 70. Near the end of the pack, the body size increased. They were already red-faced, panting.
Panting or breathing easy, each one must have been imaging the finish line. Or maybe they imagined turning the next corner. Probably they shifted between them.
That’s how I strategize this life marathon we all run. Let’s get through Jerry’s radiation. Oh, to walk through those gates, each made of a single pearl. Let’s put away unbelief. Oh, how I long for the real party, conga-lining down those golden streets.
“Let us run with patience the race that is set before us,” Hebrews 12:1 exhorts. This race requires endurance, no matter how painful the lung, no matter how sore the hip, or how much we want to give up. We may be lying on the bedroom floor ourselves. Or we may be running fast and easy. Either way, the finish line beckons.
Jesus lies on that floor with those who despair. Jesus runs with those breathing easy. We do this marathon in pairs.
Jesus, thanks for running with us.