Granted, more than two cups a day turns me into a wild-eyed conspiracy theorist with a facial twitch. Using a legal drug comes with responsibility, we must have balance. Reminds me of the time I was at a church function and I offered to get someone a cup of coffee, and the woman replied, "I don't use caffeine." She doesn't use it. She said it with such emphasis, like I had just offered her a stoke on my crack pipe. What did that make me? A drug pusher? It sure felt that way, and I shrank back like a shamed felon and sipped my coffee in silence among the other users.
Along with juicing I have also taken up running in my quest for better health. I haven't run in years, well apart from running from small angry dogs and deep regret, then I run like the dickens. I don't necessarily enjoy it. I hate it really, but nevertheless I preregistered online for several 5k races. The challenge is good and keeps me training, so essentially these races serve as a vicious form of accountability. At first it feels like a good idea, registering from the couch as I enjoy air conditioning and sip fresh kale, "Well 3.2 miles isn't that far. And by golly I need it!" A swift "click-click" of the space bar and I was committed. Then race day arrived. As I stood in the mingling crowd of intense racers and walking moms, my inner voice quickly changed its tune, what the crap am I doing here?
Like a dream that throws you into an unthinkable scenario, I had been slapped out of my sophomoric hope and suddenly knew I was in for a world of pain. I just paid twenty bucks to suffer for thirty minutes. My brother in law, who had also recently taken up running again was standing next to me. He was a track star in high school, so this challenge thrilled him. He wanted to beat his last time, I wanted to finish without hurling my last meal. We are both in our late thirties and I suppose that is part of the reason we find ourselves at the beginning of a race. We have just entered the beginning of the second chapter of our lives a little softer around the edges, a little slower.
The first lap around Central Park went well. I worked on my breathing and hung in there. The second lap was a bit rough. I ran along this other girl for a while and finally mouthed, "I'm dying." She gestured the same breathlessly, in tired runner sign language, a combination of a hanging tongue and a quick eye-roll, and we chugged along together. So far I was content with my performance. That is until a woman pushing a stroller blew past me. My pride spoke up.
"Seriously? Your going to let a woman pushing a fifteen pound baby pass you? "My body responded,
"Yes. Yes I am."
"Oh suck it up Spitler, the Finish line is just up ahead, if you don't push past her I'm going to take a serious hit. Are you listening to me?" cried my pride.
"Can't hear you over our exploding lungs. Remember the burrito we ate two hours ago? Wanna see it again? Your choice Pride." My Body was unwavering in her response, out of desperation.
We finished Fourth in my age group, Pride, Body and I. Right behind Crazy Stroller Lady. I felt pretty good actually. I'm not sure why this is but after my pride takes a hit, a new contentment washes over me. Knowing I don't have to shoulder the weight of my own worth or lack thereof, is a relief. And that my Dad in heaven is still proud of me, still rooting me on. The "win" matters to the world, but not to Jesus. The "win" to him is letting pride spout off, then letting it die to make room for Him, our Redeemer, the only voice that matters.
I signed my son Noah up for a kids Fun Run this weekend. He is very excited and tried on his running shoes this afternoon. He plopped down next to me and said,
"Mom, I just prayed to Jesus that he would be right behind me the whole race with all those other boys."
"I'm glad honey, because He will be there, running right along beside you."
"Well no Mom, I don't think he'll run. He'll float. He doesn't need to run."
"Yes, I suppose that's true."
