I don’t love to run.
Edit: I don’t run.
It’s just never been the exercise of choice for me. Zumba is more my style.
But there are times when I want to run a race. [I don’t know why either.]
In March of 2011, I finished a half-marathon in Seaside, Florida.
[That sentence originally said “I ran a half-marathon” but if you knew the ratio of run to walk that I did for those three hours, you would accuse me of lying. And you’d be right.]
I was way behind my three friends. I mean WAY behind them. As in, Katie finished in two hours, I finished in three hours and twenty-five minutes.
We all knew it would go like that. No one was surprised. I’m slow, it’s just my way. So I ran the race alone after about the first mile when my friends jogged away and I stopped to work out a calf cramp situation.
A long time later, as I turned the corner at the 12th mile, with just 1.1 miles to go, a figure was coming towards me, jogging. I kinda rolled my eyes, thinking, “Why would someone be doing the first half of the race when it is ending?” And by “ending” I mean that the bus had already driven by me at mile 10 to see if I wanted to get on it and quit the race.
Slow, y’all. I was slow.
As the jogger got closer, I realized it was my friend Katie.
She had come back to meet me, wherever I was on the course, and finish the race with me. So we ran, for 1.1 miles, and we talked about what my friends had been doing while waiting on me for the last ninety-six minutes, I kept asking her exactly how close we were to the finish [I’m sure that wasn’t annoying], and she reminded me, over and over, that she was there, and that we were about to finish.
And that day, Katie reminded me so much of Jesus.
I’m glad I finished that half-marathon because I saw Jesus’s love at the end. It made the whole race worth it.
By: Annie, Annie Blogs