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EIGHT

/ jessicaivaska / 6 Comments

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Eight years ago I did something I didn’t know I could do.

I ran. A half marathon.

I had looked up to distance runners for a long time, admiring them for their strength and perseverance. But I didn’t ever think I’d be in that category.

Then, with two of my best friends by my side, I signed up. I had only ever done two road races:

  1. I had walked (yes, walked) a half marathon. (I’ve never been so sore!)
  2. I’d run a 5k

The half marathon had been in November. Four months earlier. And now I was setting out to run that same distance. I was nervous.

We got there early, not wanting to miss anything. The extra time added to our nerves, but it also gave us time to bow our heads and pray, reminding us of the bigger picture of racing and life in general.

And so, the gun went off, and so did I. As the wet miles of Mercer Island passed by, I realized I could do it. I was going to make it.

At the finish line I was flooded by mix of emotions. Pride, gratitude, excitement, accomplishment.

Then something else set in. The bug.

I knew I wanted to do it again.

Eight months later, with one of those same friends by my side, I ran the full Seattle Marathon.

I never would have guessed that I’d keep running all these years. I never would have guessed that that one race was the start of something big in my life. And that’s the thing, you never quite know when you’re at a turning point.

By God’s grace it just happens — sometimes when you least expect it.

I’m not fast, nor will I ever be, because in running — like in life — it’s not how fast you get to the end that matters. It’s what you learn along the way.

Running has given me a lot over the years: time with God, time with friends, time in creation. It’s helped me push myself, it’s broken me, it’s shown me how incredible the human body is. And so as hard as it is, I keep at it.

Today I had planned to go out for a four-mile run, but a friend wanted to go further, so we did.

Over eight miles. Today, in celebration, that feels like just the right distance.

CHICKEN?

/ jessicaivaska / 4 Comments

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“Are you chicken?” I remember those cutting words from my grade school days. They were always said with a lilt in the voice, a taunting, manipulative question.

There are a lot of things you don’t want to be when you are in 2nd, 3rd, or 4th grade, and chicken is near the top of that list.

Here in Hawaii we have chickens. Lots of chickens. Some are pets and some are used for laying eggs, but most of them just roam the streets. Rag-tag bands of feral chickens can be found in almost every neighborhood.

So the other day, when I came across a chicken and a rooster on my run, I wasn’t shocked. And no, I wasn’t scared either. But, as I got closer, the chicken freaked out. Like royally flipped out. She up and ran.

Now. I’m sorry to say that Ms. Chicken’s timing was terrible. At just that moment, a truck was coming up the street on my right.

I don’t have to tell you the rest. I’ll let you imagine what it sounded like.

Needless to say my entire body flinched and I turned away. But it got me to thinking, in her fear, the chicken went towards something that was more dangerous than what she was afraid of.

I mean, I guess I can be more scary than I realize, but I wasn’t planning to even touch the chicken. I was just going to let her be. Her perception of me was inaccurate, which led to fear, and then unwarranted action that actually caused more harm.

There are things in life we all fear. Cancer. Terrorist attacks. Losing loved ones. And when you are in elementary school the list of things to be afraid of is much longer. It includes monsters, the dark, and your best friend moving away.

But when you dig down deep and look at the roots of your fear—are the things you are afraid of really worth being scared at?

It’s not the fear itself that matters. It’s what you do with it.

Do you get on your knees and cry out to the God of the Universe who is waiting with open arms to listen to every word you say and wipe away every tear you cry?

Or do you pull up your bootstraps, try harder and turn to run from your fear?

When you turn and run, you never know when a truck will come around the corner. But if you take your fears to the One who loves you and created you, you’ll be safe every single time.

So are you chicken? What are you gonna do about it?

NEVER THERE

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While I was on a run this morning, an older man walking his shaggy, gray-haired dog looked at me, smiled and said, “You’re never there.”

I smiled back and tossed out a “hello,” as I kept trudging onward. I was almost “there.” My house was just around the corner. My run almost over for the day.
As my feet carried me a few more steps the realization of what he said hit me. I hadn’t understood him at first, but as his words sank in, I got mad.

“Who does this guy think he is? He doesn’t know why I’m running. He makes it sound like I’m running to something–-or from something. He doesn’t know me. Grrrrr.”

But then after few steps more and a gentle nudge in my spirit, I realized maybe he was on to something.

Maybe this guy has lived enough life to know that no matter where you’re going, once you’re “there,” there’s always somewhere else to go. The “to-do” list never ends. You never actually “arrive.”

Maybe in this moment God was speaking to me. Was this the quiet whisper of His voice, telling me that it’s ok to slow down? Reminding me of the lesson He’s been trying to teach me for decades?

It’s ok to enjoy the ride. Not only is it ok, but I SHOULD.

If i’m never gonna get “there” in this life, then there’s no rush, right?

What would it be like to be in the moment? To breathe deep because I want to, not because I’m out of breath from rushing from one thing to the next.
What if living itself is all the “there” we get this side of eternity? Surely it’s enough. I just don’t let it be.

I’m going to keep running, but hopefully I will do it because I want to, not because I’m rushing. I want to look around more. Walk some. Take in my surroundings and know that wherever I am, I’m already there. And so are you.

Thanks old guy, for the reminder. Maybe you were right after all.