A screeching whistle blares across the wide, open
baseball diamond, like a storm siren signaling imminent threat.
"Run! Run! Start your run," yells Mr.
Tobita in his serious coaching voice.
Instantly, I gather myself and start to
sprint--half-running, half-jumping, haphazardly through the crowded pack of
seventh-graders taking part in the dreaded, mandatory "Mile Run."
It's seventh grade, and I'm 11 years old. The year
of adolescence most deeply rooted in my memory. That was the year I learned
that my best-friend-forever wasn't trustworthy and had in fact leaked to my
entire science class that I had a crush on a fellow classmate. She sold me
out--all for popularity's sake. That was also the year that my Mom enrolled me
in Canoe Paddling, the state sport of Hawaii--an opportunity that would mold me
in the years to come. And that was the year my Dad walked out on my Mom, and
never came back. My life changed vividly within a few short months back in the
late 1990s.
"Keep going!" My PE Instructor continues,
seemingly unaware of the growing distance between myself and the other
students. My lungs struggle to expand and collapse at a normal rate, each
breath becoming increasingly difficult. As fear sets in, I stop running and
change my pace to a slow walk. Asthma, that's what the doctor called it.
He said that with exercise and time, I would probably grow out of it. But right
now, I can barely finish the first leg of the run.
"Help, Mr. Tobita!" I scream, as a
shooting pain surges through my right calf. With one swift movement, I'm on the
ground, my cheeks awash with salty tears. Mr. Tobita is at my side in less than
a minute, and quickly guides me into a leg stretch. Apparently, my calf muscle
had cramped, and now I needed to take it easy, he explained. My face disheveled
from the embarrassment, I trudge on slowly as hour-like minutes eventually
bring me to the finish line.
This memory consumes me, as I reflect on my
experience with running over the years. I can still smell the nearby Makawao
chicken farm; its strong odor encroaching upon the Eddie Tam Park fields, where
we'd play team sports during middle school. For some reason, that story often
replays in my mind. How what I wanted most at 11 years old was to be able to
run with abandon and finish that once-yearly physical test. Running quickly
took on an ephemeral nature to me: I found myself daydreaming that I could
outrun the fastest boys at school or run as fast as the giant doglike character
"Falcor" in Neverending Story could fly.
Alongside prayers for my Dad to wander back into
our family, I asked God to help me be able to run a whole mile someday. My
dream was simple, and my prayers were equally so. "God, please strengthen
my lungs and my legs and help me to be able to run like Falcor," I'd
whisper under the covers at night. I truly believed that God could grant my
heart's desire.
Intermediate school flew by and so did the first
few years of high school. I still dreamed that one day I'd be able to run a
whole mile without stopping. Through canoe paddling six days a week, my lung
strength quickly increased. Likewise, my asthma-induced wheezing fits
disappeared almost completely. I loved to swim, and compete in the weekly canoe
races. Part of our training regime included longer runs along the Kahului
harbor. I was scared to death of those runs and begged my mom countless times
to keep me home from practice on those days. Yet, she always said no. My
friends Joanna, Mahi, and I would regularly run the initial leg of the course,
and then hide out behind the industrial buildings until we saw fellow team
members returning. I was sure that my body still couldn't run the entire
distance. I'd tried, and failed. So many times.
The summer between high school and college,
something started to change in me. I realized that if I ever wanted to run a
mile, I needed to press through the challenges and start to believe that I was
capable. Over the next four years, I resolved to practice running. I started
small, and noticed that even in that, I came up against walls of
discouragement, desperation, and disappointment. A fast sprint would swiftly
spiral downward into a defeated walk, as I listened to the negative thoughts
that played like a soundtrack in my mind during those runs. Messages that I
wasn't enough. "I'm not a runner" and "I'll never be thin,"
along with, "You can't do this." I distinctly remember the words of
my Mom during that season; she encouraged me that I needed to rework that soundtrack
and teach myself to believe the Truth. The truth about who God made me, and
that I was enough. In Christ, I had everything I needed to be able to conquer
mountains. I could learn to run.
Following college, I moved home to Maui from San
Diego. Early morning runs, watching the sun rise up over Haleakala, elevated my
spirit. Strangely enough, I grew to love those quiet, peace-filled runs when I
was alone on a trail or street, my feet hitting the ground and raising with
fierce determination. My older sister and I occasionally ran together, and I
once pointed out to her that on the days I ran alone, I wasn't really
alone. "Jesus is my Running Partner," I'd say, jokingly. But we both
took those words to heart and even now recount God's faithfulness in running
alongside us all these years. I think that together we decided that if we ever
ran a race from that point on, we'd try to use that phrase somehow, on our
shirts or in our hearts.
Faith over fear. My heart echoes this simple phrase
with increasing resonance, as I continue to make choices based on faith rather
than my own insecurities and weaknesses. About a month ago, I signed up for a
race that I've wanted to run since I was a child. A prayer request that was
bound deep in my heart for quite some time, buried under the burden of failed
expectations, grief, and loss.
God called this particular prayer to mind on May
15th. That was the day I signed up for my first half-marathon, just three
months prior to the actual race. I decided to listen to what He had put on my
heart years earlier.
Jesus is my Running Partner.
He will provide the strength I need for this, as I
step out in faith.
A couple days ago, I ran a six-mile stretch up and
down the hilly trails near our house. Every mile, I wanted to quit and felt
overwhelmed at the prospect of yet another mile. "I'm a failure. I'm not a
runner," I thought to myself, as I considered all the weight I've gained
over the past year from traveling through Europe and living off of three basic
food groups: chocolate croissants, gelato, and espresso, along with the stress
of moving to Alaska and settling in to a normal routine. Yet, all those things
considered, I realized that I could keep going. I could keep pushing through
the mental obstacles. I could make a choice to trust that God knew what He was
doing.
I'm a work in progress, and I'm still learning how
to run.
I think I'm a distance runner at heart--believing
in faith that each day is a small part of this grand race.
