Where to start?
I’ve been quiet on here because I didn’t feel legitimate if I wasn’t running in some capacity. I’ve ignored the nagging intermittent pain in my foot and pressed on. I’ve diversified with swimming and biking and lifting (my new love), but right now running is like a haunting ex-lover. Every time I walk by my medals on the wall , I feel like I’m reading a past love letter. Every time I hear about the marathon, I feel guilt.
Guilt because like a lover, running was an integral part of my life.
Guilt because the pain is intermittent and not all-consuming, but I’m still too scared to run more than 2 miles.
Guilt because despite this post, I first and foremost think of myself as a runner. I was a decent swimmer in high school, but running saved me in multiple ways and was the challenge in my life that I now largely lack.
Fed up this morning with yet another post about the Pittsburgh Marathon, I emailed UPMC Sports Medicine for a consultation. I’m sure this is equal parts denial and frustration, but it’s not getting better.
There’s also some stuff in my life right now that is out of my immediate control. And those of you who know me know I love a plan and a system and organization, and right now none of that is up to me. My loved ones have been supportive, but it’s an understatement to say that it’s frustrating.
While sitting in church today, the communion music was “Even When He is Silent” by Kim Andrew Arnesen. I liked the lyrics, which are:
“I believe in the sun, even when it’s not shining. I believe in love, even when I feel it not. I believe in God, even when He is silent.”
I’m totally feeling like God is silent right now, from my foot to my life. And while I am grateful to Him for all of the amazing things, I sure wish He would run on my schedule.
It was in reading the “About” section for the communion music that I became totally and utterly humbled.
The text of the song was found in 1945, written on a wall in a concentration camp.
I want to complain about Him being silent in my blessed life – when someone can have more faith than me in a concentration camp.
And suddenly I have a new sense of patience and gratitude- with my body, with my life.