It's been more than a year, probably, since the treadmill died. I didn't use it much since we got here anyway--that was more of Shane's tool. He'd been toying with the idea of fixing it. We thought it would be good to just train on the hills outside. We could race each other.
Yesterday we were down in the field looking at vines to cut back.
"How about we race from the post to the top of the hill?" I suggested.
"No, let's run to the driveway," he said. That's even farther away.
We raced to the post, and he turned around and RAN BACKWARDS and STILL BEAT ME.
"You need to give me a head start," I said when we got to the post. "Don't start till I get to that tree."
I took off, and it felt like I was running through thickness. I was approaching the tree and I knew he'd be ready to go. I wanted to go even slower to hold him off, but at the same time, I had to pick up my pace. Good grief, I thought, if I was trying to outrun a murderer, I'd be gone.
I got to the tree, knowing he was taking off, and I didn't look back. It felt like the air got thicker.
"I'm a dead man! I'm a dead man!" I laughed and gasped and yelled as we tore up the hill. I did make it to the top of the hill and dropped, breathless, laughing. He kept going to the driveway.
Luckily, in a spiritual race, I know Jesus carries me in my weakness.
The past couple of weeks have been busy with service and hospitality, little sleep and several surprises. I was on the phone with a photography friend who was offering feedback on my work. I rattled off a greeting and update, only having 45 minutes to offer him.
"Sorry for such a brief window!" I finished.
"I just have one question for you," he said, measured. "What kind of coffee do you drink?"
"It's all grace," I said. A joyful tonic. I drink it in.
Running, not in my own strength, but His. The hill part, though, might require a bit more from me.