It takes five miles of walking to wear me out, but I’m short on time and steps. So, I do what any logical person who cracked an ankle on the sharp edge of a counter and now wears Chaco sandals to mask the injury — I run.

As my breathing settles into a rhythm, I remember running on the dirt road leading to my grandparents’ ranch. Then, seven-year-old me wasn’t tired. My parents noticed . . . told me I could be a distance runner. 

Except I never was.

I rarely ran, even when I could, because I never gave myself the chance to love it. 

The next morning, I take a run and test my ankle on the one lane road with tall trees and enfolding peace. I run past my usual turnaround, and inhale honeysuckle and woods as I survey all that beautiful Daniel Boone land, later named Kentucky. I turn off the song playing on repeat and let my earbuds amplify the pound of my feet, the pulse of my heartbeat. 

It’s a different kind of listening, a stilling more than a leaning in. I surrender to it, scoop up wide open air and rustling leaves and the cheerful chirrup of birds. I have no expectation, no question scraping my insides, none of tomorrow’s to-dos. Just one lane of pavement and white lines stretching out of sight. 

A week goes by and I run again, this time so I’m facing the sun before it rises. I know I’ll pay for it with a swollen ankle, but I so desperately want to catch the sunrise, like I did that one time on Hilton Head Island. I want to be in awe, as colors rise and spread fragrant across the sky. I want to taste the wonder, touch God’s nearness.

In her book One Thousand Gifts, Ann Voskamp wrote about chasing the moon and ocean waves lifting, lulling, cresting. I recall Ann’s words as Rick Pino’s song, “Your Love Is Like an Ocean,” runs through my head, and it makes me want to feel alive and chase the wonder with that same kind of lovestruck abandon.

I’d bet you do too. 

Because . . . busy is a burden we weren’t meant to hold. We were made for more than monotony and boredom and settling. God isn’t distant, dry, or predictable — He’s adventure and searing holiness and the whisper to taste, see, and delight is in His goodness (Psalm 34:8).

Sometimes, that means pausing . . . turning off the music, watching the sun rise, and then stooping to photograph it through the tall grass at the edge of the road. Other times, it means running towards it. Breaking a sweat, gulping lungfuls of air, willing yourself to keep going. 

I’ve been content to live too much of my life numb. I keep a tight rein on my emotions, pretend I don’t care when, in fact, I do have preferences and things that make me ache. I’ve told myself God’s glorious presence is for fleeting moments — only sneak peeks of what heaven will be like, not for every day enjoyment.

Out here, however, the ordinary and eternal intermingle, and my heart sings this truth: God is all around me. Longing thins the distance my apathy constructs, opens my eyes to see that glory saturates the scene before me.  

It’s me, not Him who forgets to pursue. Me who stops responding to His standing invitation to be found.

You and I don’t have to wait for the moon or the sunrise or the roar of the ocean. We sell ourselves short of the deep joy of knowing God unless we chase after Him, give ourselves permission to bow low in awe and feel our way through ache and hope.

I’m stilling running — but now I slow my pace because my phone tells me it’s sunrise time. It’s just soft yellow, barely bold or bright yet . . . but it’s glory peeping in, brimming over onto a waiting world.

I’m not disappointed. God is no less glorious in this mundane moment — and I’m here for it. 

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