Month: July 2025

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The Making of a Runner

“Therefore, since we have so great a cloud of witnesses surrounding us, let us also lay aside every encumbrance and the sin which so easily entangles us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” — Hebrews 12:1–2 (NASB)

I didn’t become a runner when I lost the weight, or when I crossed the marathon finish line. I became a runner somewhere in the middle — when I kept showing up, day after day, even when no one was watching.

Running didn’t fix me. It didn’t save me. But it changed me. It built something in me that couldn’t be faked — the kind of strength that comes from doing hard things when there’s no applause, no finish line, no crowd.

At first, running was just a tool. A means to an end. I ran to lose weight, to feel better, to get healthy. But over time, it became something more. It became part of who I was — not because I was fast, but because I was faithful.

There’s a difference between someone who runs and someone who is a runner. The first is about activity. The second is about identity. And for me, it wasn’t about pace or distance or race medals. It was about consistency. Commitment. Grit.

I ran in the heat, in the cold, after long days at work, through stress I didn’t know how to name. Some days the runs felt easy. Other days they were a war. But every time I showed up, I was becoming someone new — not just a man who ran, but a man who endured.

And endurance spilled into everything.

Into fatherhood — showing up for my kids, even when I didn’t feel strong. Into marriage — choosing presence over escape, even when it was hard. Into faith — believing, even when I didn’t feel it. Into work — staying steady, even under pressure.

Running wasn’t just a habit. It was a habit that formed me.

I never wore the label “athlete” growing up. I wasn’t the guy who lived for gym class or team sports. But somewhere in the miles, I found a rhythm that matched the life I was learning to live — quiet, steady, marked by perseverance more than performance.

I became a runner not because I was perfect, but because I refused to quit.

And in that identity, I began to find a kind of freedom — the freedom of being fully in the moment, fully in my body, fully present on the road beneath me. The freedom of running not away from something, but toward something better.

Through it all — the quiet mornings, the hard runs, the seasons of sorrow and strength — God was there. Not just at the finish lines, but in every step. He was with me in the struggle, in the silence, in the effort it took just to keep going. I didn’t always feel His presence, but I know now He never left.

It wasn’t just running that shaped me. It was the grace that carried me. The strength I found in the miles wasn’t mine alone — it was His, sustaining me through every up and down.

I became a runner, yes. But more than that, I became someone who was learning to walk with God — not just on the easy days, but especially when the road felt long.

The Road That Changed Me
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The Battle at the Crossroads

Note – This section is out of order and should be read after reading, “The heat that broke me”

The heat had broken me — but not all the way.

That sweltering afternoon run exposed something I could no longer hide. It was the beginning of confession, the start of a deeper unraveling. But healing doesn’t happen all at once. And even after that breaking point, I still clung to old patterns. I still believed I could manage the mess.

I looked fit. By then, I had lost nearly a hundred pounds. My mile splits were getting faster, my long runs more consistent. People were noticing — at work, at church, online. They called it inspiring.

But they didn’t know I was drinking.

Not since college — not since I gave it up after becoming a Christian. This was the first time I had picked up a drink in all those years. And it wasn’t like before, not out in the open. This time it was controlled. Measured. I told myself I deserved it after hard runs. Just a glass. Just enough to wind down. Just enough to lie to myself again.

Running had become a kind of refuge. It gave me goals, structure, even peace. I thought it could save me from everything else — my shame, my exhaustion, my slow spiritual drift. But it couldn’t. Not completely.

Because running doesn’t deal with the heart. It can strengthen the body and clear the mind, but it doesn’t confront pride or self-deception. It doesn’t pull hidden bottles from the back of cabinets.

That took something else.

That took a crossroads.

One road led deeper into performance — stacking habits like armor, chasing control. The other led into the dark woods of confession, of surrender, of admitting I couldn’t fix myself. I hadn’t walked either road fully before, but that season forced the decision. The drinking had only just begun — a slow unraveling that would stretch across a decade — but already I could sense where the paths would lead.

And I didn’t sprint into healing. I limped.

The thing about addiction — at least mine — is that it starts in silence. I hid my drinking at first, because I knew it didn’t belong in the life I had built. It didn’t fit with faith, with family, with the man I believed I was trying to become. But stress has a way of blurring lines. And when the pressure at home and work built up, alcohol offered a shortcut to numbness.

I’d run in the late afternoons, and when I came home, I’d grab a sport bottle. Not for hydration — for hiding. The same bottles I filled with electrolytes were now filled with something else. I told myself it was fine. I wasn’t driving anywhere. No one could smell it. No one would ask.

But sin has a smell.

One evening, my daughter found the bottle. It was tucked in the kitchen — where I thought no one would look. But she was doing the dishes, and saw a sports bottle in the back corner of the counter. She opened it, smelled it, and knew. Knew it was mine. Knew it wasn’t Gatorade. Knew the lie.

She went to my wife — “my lovely wife,” as I’ve always called her on my blog. She told her what she’d found. My wife was devastated — frantic, confused, and heartbroken. She had no idea I was drinking, let alone hiding it. And I’ll never forget what my daughter said:

“Mom, nothing has changed, it’s just now you know.”

That line has stayed with us ever since. We’ve used it in other hard conversations. It reminds me that truth doesn’t create a new problem — it simply uncovers the one that’s already been there, festering in the dark.

That moment was the beginning of a long fork in the road — not a clean break, but the first time I had to truly face what I had become. I could keep running with secrets, or start walking — slowly, painfully — in the direction of truth.

But I didn’t take the better path right away.

Even after being found out, my drinking didn’t stop. It just went deeper underground. I’d apologize, make promises, string together a few dry weeks here and there. But life didn’t stop throwing punches. Bills, stress, relational strain, the weight of being the steady one for everyone else — it piled up. And when I didn’t know how to process it all, I reached for the one thing that made the noise in my brain go quiet.

At first it was one drink to take the edge off. Then two. Then three. I wasn’t falling-down drunk. I was fully functional. Still running. Still showing up. But every day I was slowly drifting from the man I wanted to be.

Running had taught me how to endure pain — but it hadn’t taught me how to face it.

And that’s the lie I believed for a long time: that discipline in one area could excuse damage in another. That because I was improving physically, I was okay spiritually. But deep down, I knew I was medicating my mind instead of renewing it. I wasn’t surrendering stress — I was sedating it.

Years went by like that. I could run ten miles but couldn’t face ten quiet minutes alone with my thoughts. I could track my pace down to the second but couldn’t name the spiritual weight I carried.

And yet… God was still there.

Not storming in with condemnation, but whispering. Offering something deeper than escape. Something more costly than self-help. Freedom — not from running, but through surrender.

I didn’t stop drinking right away. In fact, I kept drinking for years. But even in the middle of that long wandering, God never left. He didn’t pull His presence away because I wasn’t getting it right. He stayed. He waited. He loved me through the slow return.

Every small crack in my denial, every moment of conviction, every whisper of grace — those were His footsteps beside mine. And looking back now, I can see it clearly: I wasn’t strong. I wasn’t faithful. But He was.

He always is.

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A Finish Worth Remembering

After all the setbacks, soreness, and slow miles, something began to shift. My mileage increased. Not all at once, and not without pain — but it happened. Week after week, I kept showing up. And slowly, my legs got stronger, my lungs got steadier, and my confidence grew.

I signed up for the Mercedes Half Marathon in Birmingham. It felt bold at the time — maybe too bold. But I needed something to chase. Not just to prove I could do it, but to remind myself that the road I was on was going somewhere.

Training looked different in that season. I began incorporating speed workouts — not because I thought I was fast, but because I wanted to push myself further. I had a goal: to finish under two hours. I didn’t know if I could do it, but I trained like it was possible.

When race day came, I felt ready — nervous, but ready. The energy downtown was electric, runners everywhere, music pumping, bibs pinned tight. I found my spot in the crowd, looked around, and realized: I belonged here. Maybe I didn’t look like a “real runner” in the traditional sense, but I had earned my place at the starting line.

I wasn’t running alone either. My sons came to support me, and one of them — the same son who had encouraged me to sign up and take on the race in the first place — ran the race with me. Their encouragement meant more than they knew. It made the miles feel lighter.

I crossed the finish line in 1 hour and 44 minutes — well under my goal.

It was amazing. I honestly didn’t think I’d finish the race, let alone finish it that far under two hours. The last few miles were a test of everything in me — physically, emotionally, and spiritually. I had never run more than 10 miles before. Now I had pushed through to 13.1.

But I hadn’t done it alone.

I prayed the entire race, through every step, every ache, every mile marker. I knew I couldn’t have even made it to the starting line without Him — and I was certain He had carried me across the finish. He was with me in the doubts, in the fear, in the final stretch when everything in me wanted to slow down. And I know that He celebrated with me when I crossed that line.

Later, I had coworkers tell me they knew athletes in great shape who couldn’t break two hours in a half marathon. They were amazed — and honestly, so was I. That finish time became a reminder: I was capable of more than I thought. I had done something real. Something hard. And it lit something inside me.

I started dreaming about running more half marathons. Even a full one. The finish line didn’t mark the end of something — it opened the door to everything that came next.