“But they who wait for the Lord shall renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.”
– Isaiah 40:31 (ESV)

Running was never just about fitness. Not really.

Sure, I started because I wanted to lose weight and get healthy – and yes, I had goals like running a marathon or maybe even qualifying for Boston. But as the miles stacked up, something deeper began to emerge. Running became a space where I could think clearly – not in lightning bolts or sermons, but in the quiet rhythm of my feet on the pavement and the simple prayer that rose with every breath.

Each run gave me the gift of stillness. Not just outward quiet, but the kind of inner silence where I could hear the truth again – that I hadn’t arrived, that I was still in process, but that I was moving forward. I didn’t have to carry the weight of who I used to be. I could press on toward something greater – toward the upward call God had placed on my life.

Philippians 3:13-14 says, “Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal…”

That’s exactly what I had to do – not just once, but every day. I had to let go of old habits that weighed me down. The regret of wasted time. The cycles of defeat. I couldn’t carry that and move forward. The past couldn’t be changed, but today could. And that’s where I began – with today.

I remember weeks when I missed every planned run. I’d log the numbers: missed distance, missed goals. But I kept coming back. I kept pressing forward. I had to. Like Paul said, straining toward what is ahead meant starting fresh – not with flawless weeks, but with faithful steps.

Some days that meant walking more than running. Other days it meant celebrating a slow pace because it was still progress. The prize wasn’t speed. It was faithfulness. Every mile I ran was a choice to press on. And those choices, over time, reshaped my life.

There were still days I didn’t want to run. I was tired. The weather was miserable. My body ached. But I laced up my shoes anyway. That daily decision – to show up, to go out, to run the path before me – became its own kind of discipline. It was a way of casting off everything that weighed me down – not just physically, but spiritually. I was learning to run with perseverance, one step at a time.

Hebrews 12:1-2 says, “Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus…”

Sometimes, I thought of my father and my siblings – the ones who ran before me. I thought of my sister’s encouragement, and the legacy of movement and effort that they lived out. And with them in mind, I kept going. I didn’t want to waste the chance I had – the breath in my lungs, the road in front of me. I wanted to run well. Not just physically, but spiritually.

God didn’t meet me in a grand, cinematic moment. He met me in the steady steps. In the ordinary discipline. In the decision to keep showing up, to keep letting go of the past, to keep pressing forward even when the goal still felt far away.

Running didn’t become sacred – but it did become clarifying. It reminded me that the real prize wasn’t the marathon. It wasn’t Boston. It wasn’t a number on a scale. The reward was deeper – a life reshaped by discipline, a heart tuned toward obedience, a soul learning to walk in step with something far greater than personal success.

Philippians 3:8 says, “What is more, I consider everything a loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord…”

The surpassing worth of knowing Him far outweighed any personal achievement I could chase.

That awareness didn’t always come with fireworks – sometimes it came with sore knees and slow miles. But it came. And it stuck.

I didn’t run to prove anything anymore. I ran because God was changing me, and running was one of the ways He helped me see it.

—

I wasn’t an athlete. I never had been. I was the last kid picked for teams. But there I was in my 50s, running six days a week – not because I was gifted, but because I was determined. Each run, I’d whisper a prayer: “God, please keep me from getting hurt.” It wasn’t poetic or long, but it was honest. I ran because I needed it, and God knew why. That simple prayer became part of the rhythm. I wasn’t just training my legs. I was learning to trust Him in the small things – the mundane, the daily, the painful.

I love running because it clears out the noise. I spend my days surrounded by screens and signals – phones, computers, tech. But when I run, it’s just me and the sound of my feet on the pavement. That’s where my thoughts settle. That’s where I pray. It’s where the fog in my heart lifts enough for God to speak. Sometimes I pour out frustrations, sometimes I’m just quiet. It’s better than therapy. I don’t need pills or answers – just the rhythm of movement, the cool air, and the chance to be alone with my thoughts and my Creator.

I wrote that once in a blog post: “I cannot make an excuse. I just run.” It wasn’t bravado – it was surrender. Running stripped away the comfort of excuses. It reminded me that progress didn’t wait for perfect conditions. Whether it was hot, raining, or I didn’t feel like it, I ran. In that routine, God met me. He taught me to show up when I didn’t want to. To be faithful when it didn’t feel fruitful. To do the next right thing – and let Him handle the outcome.

—

Over time, I realized I was laying down the very habits that helped me run this greater race – the one marked by endurance, by grace, by focus. The road reminded me to let go of what didn’t matter, to hold tightly to what did, and to keep going – eyes fixed where they belong.

And so I did. Not always fast. Not always strong. But always forward.