I know life can press in so hard that it feels like everything is falling apart. I have walked through that myself. But one thing I have learned, especially through the breaking points in my own life, is that suffering is never wasted when it is placed in God’s hands. There is something holy about yielding to Him in the middle of what we do not understand, something sacred about trusting His designs even when they feel hidden from us. Scripture says in 1 Peter 2:20 that when we suffer in faith, this is a gracious thing in His sight.
Job lived this in a way few people ever have. His world collapsed in a moment, yet he bowed low before God. He did not pretend he had answers. He did not rely on his own strength. He simply leaned into God with a heart that was willing to accept whatever God allowed and to trust whatever God was doing. He could still say, “Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him” in Job 13:15. His surrender was not passive. It was an active yielding of himself to God’s purpose, even when that purpose was hidden.
What Job could not see in the middle of his pain was that God was still holding every piece of his life together. I have learned that same truth. The moments that feel like collapse often become the moments where God reshapes us. And even when nothing makes sense, there is a peace that comes from quietly accepting that God’s designs are wiser and deeper than anything we can grasp. There is a strength that comes from uniting our suffering with Christ and letting God do in us what only suffering can accomplish.
Our suffering mirrors Jesus more than we realize. He carried a cross He did not deserve, and Isaiah 53 reminds us that He carried it with a steady and surrendered heart. When we keep walking, trusting, and placing ourselves in God’s hands even when the night is long, we walk beside Him. We are not trying to be strong. We are simply choosing to stay close to the One who already carried every sorrow we face.
Scripture promises that none of this pain is forgotten. Paul says in 2 Corinthians 4:17 that our suffering is producing an eternal weight of glory. God sees every hidden moment, every quiet act of trust, every time we yield ourselves to Him instead of resisting what He allows. Nothing is overlooked. Nothing is wasted.
So if you are hurting, hear this. Every time you keep faith in the quiet places, every time you trust when you have no answers, every time you take one more step when the last one nearly broke you, your suffering becomes a quiet yes to God. A yes that heaven honors. A yes shaped by surrender. A yes formed by trusting His designs even when they are impenetrable to us. A yes united with the heart of Christ who suffered before us and suffers with us still.
If you ever wonder what this book is really about, it’s not about running. It’s about redemption. It’s about saying yes when everything in you says no. It’s about learning that the race God sets before us isn’t measured in miles or medals, but in moments of surrender.
You’ve watched me change. Some of you saw the worst of me before you saw the best of me. You saw what happens when a man runs from his pain, and you saw what happens when he finally turns around and runs toward grace. You saw me break, and you saw God put me back together, one faithful step at a time.
Every mile I ran, I thought of you. Every time I wanted to quit, I remembered your faces. You were the reason I started, but more than that, you became the reason I kept going. I wanted you to see that change is possible — not through willpower, but through surrender.
There will be seasons in your lives when the road feels long and the miles stretch on forever. When that happens, remember this: you don’t have to run fast, you just have to keep moving toward the light. God doesn’t ask for perfection, He asks for faithfulness.
If there’s one lesson my journey has taught me, it’s that grace always meets us where we are, but it never leaves us there.
You carry my name, but more importantly, you carry His image. Wherever you go, run your race with endurance. Love well. Forgive quickly. Pray constantly. And remember that the finish line isn’t the end — it’s where true life begins.
The road never really ends. I used to think the finish line in Boston was the goal, the point where the story would finally make sense. But somewhere between the first hesitant steps and the thousandth mile, I learned that the true finish line isn’t painted across a city street; it’s written across the heart.
Running taught me what faith had been trying to show me all along: that transformation isn’t a moment, it’s a way of life. Every stride, every breath, every small decision to keep moving when it would be easier to quit, they became acts of surrender.
I began this journey at 278 pounds, weighed down by more than just my body. There was shame, exhaustion, fear, and a quiet ache for something more. I prayed for strength to lose the weight, but God gave me something far greater. He gave me more of Himself. Through the rhythm of the road and the solitude of the miles, I found a place where I could finally listen.
Somewhere along the way, the miles became prayers.
“Let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith.” Hebrews 12:1–2
There were days I ran with joy, and days I ran with tears. There were afternoons when the sweat on my face mingled with gratitude, and I knew God was as close as my next breath.
For a long time I thought habit was the key to everything. Habit felt like the engine that pulled me from the couch to the road, from excuses to action. It gave me structure when I had none and direction when I felt lost. But habit, by itself, can only carry a person so far. What I learned over these miles is that habit may start the journey, but faithfulness sustains it. Habit builds routine. Faithfulness builds character. Habit gets you out the door. Faithfulness keeps you moving toward God even when everything in you wants to turn back. Habit made me a runner. Faithfulness is making me whole.
The man who once could barely run a mile now runs not for medals, but for meaning. I’ve learned that faith is less about arriving and more about abiding, staying close, staying faithful, staying in motion toward God even when the way isn’t clear.
“But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.” Philippians 3:13–14
When I look back now, I see that every mile was preparing me for something eternal. The discipline that began with running became the same discipline that sustains my soul: prayer, obedience, faithfulness in the small things.
And so now, at the close of this road and the beginning of another, I pray the words of St. Ignatius of Loyola, words that have become the quiet rhythm of my own journey:
Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will. All that I have and call my own. You have given all to me. To You, Lord, I return it. Everything is Yours; do with it what You will. Give me only Your love and Your grace; that is enough for me.
That prayer sums up everything this road has taught me. I can’t earn grace, but I can live in response to it. Every run is another chance to say thank You. Every step is another chance to say yes.
I don’t run as fast as I once did. I don’t need to. The goal isn’t to finish ahead, it’s to finish faithful.
The road that began at 278 pounds has led me through surrender, renewal, and joy. I’ve learned that God doesn’t just heal what’s broken; He redeems it, reshaping it into something that points back to Him.
I used to dream of crossing the finish line in Boston. Now I dream of crossing the finish line of life with faith still burning, heart still steady, stride still sure.
And so, I keep running.
Not toward Boston anymore, but toward home.
“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for His appearing.” 2 Timothy 4:7–8
“You say, ‘I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.’ But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked.”
— Revelation 3:17
I came across this flower on a run, lying across the sidewalk, and I was immediately reminded of these words from Revelation.
When I run, I often see things that I would have missed if I were rushing past in a car or sitting inside at home. That day it was this flower. At first glance, it still looked alive—its color bright, its shape intact. The morning sun gave it a shadow that looked stronger than the flower itself. But as I looked closer, I could see the truth: the stem was bent, the bloom pressed into the pavement, and it would never stand upright again.
That image stayed with me. It reminded me how easy it is to live in the illusion of strength, to cast a long shadow that looks impressive to others, while in reality being weak, fragile, and fading inside. For years I did that—covering up my struggles, hiding behind habits that weren’t healthy, and convincing myself I was fine. On the outside, I could make things look put-together. On the inside, I was exactly what Christ says here: poor, blind, and naked.
But here’s the hope. Jesus doesn’t just diagnose the problem; He offers the cure: “I counsel you to buy from me gold refined in the fire… white clothes to wear… and salve to put on your eyes, so you can see” (Revelation 3:18). He invites us to exchange appearances for reality, shadows for true life.
That’s been my story. Running has been one of the places God used to show me who I really was—bent low like that flower—and also the place He taught me how to rise again in Him. Each mile has become not just exercise, but a way to walk in honesty before God, letting Him clothe me in what lasts.
The flower on the sidewalk reminded me: what seems alive may already be dying if it’s cut off from its source. But rooted in Christ, even what has fallen can stand again, and what looks fragile can bloom into something eternal.
When I think about the word discipline, two images come to mind. One is of my father, firm but steady, correcting me when I veered off course. The other is of myself lacing up running shoes after a long day of work, no one watching, no one telling me what to do, but knowing I had to step out the door anyway.
The Training
In our early years, discipline usually comes from the outside. Parents, teachers, coaches, and mentors set boundaries, give instruction, and sometimes enforce consequences we do not appreciate at the time. It can feel like restriction. But often, that correction is less about control and more about shaping a foundation. My father’s discipline was not only about what not to do, but about teaching me what kind of man I was called to become.
When a parent or mentor disciplines, they are lending us their strength until we have our own. Their “no” is not just a denial. It is a guardrail to keep us on the road long enough for us to learn the way.
The Self
As we grow, something changes. What began as outside correction slowly becomes an inside conviction. I no longer needed my father to tell me that hard work mattered. I had seen it in his life, and I had begun to choose it in mine. The guardrails became a compass, not holding me back but helping me navigate forward.
That is the moment discipline turns inward and becomes self-discipline. It is the quiet decision to get out of bed before sunrise, to keep training when no one else notices, to pray when no one else knows. No parent or mentor stands there to enforce it anymore. The responsibility rests in my own hands.
The Spirit
The Bible makes this same connection. In Hebrews 12, God’s discipline is compared to a father’s. Sometimes it is painful in the moment, but always for our good. His correction is not punishment but preparation. Over time, the goal is not that we remain forever under the rod of correction, but that we develop the fruit of self-discipline born out of trust in Him. Paul wrote to Timothy, “God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-discipline” (2 Timothy 1:7).
In that sense, self-discipline is not independence from God but maturity in Him. It is the freedom to choose obedience because His ways have become our ways.
The Road
Running taught me this lesson all over again. At first, I needed strict rules: “Run three miles after work, no excuses.” It was like the voice of a coach echoing in my head. But as the miles added up, discipline stopped being an external demand and became an internal desire. I wanted the clarity, the order, the closeness with God that came when I kept those habits.
Correction planted the seed. Self-discipline became the harvest.
What if God gave you the power to stop time once a week? Not a metaphor, not a wishful prayer, but a real pause button. The whole world would freeze in place; conversations caught mid-word, birds hovering mid-flight, waves locked in mid-crest. You alone would remain moving, awake, alive.
What would you do with it?
At first glance, it feels like an easy answer: I’d use it for good. I’d serve quietly without being noticed, the way Scripture encourages, “do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” Maybe I’d fix something before it breaks, pick up where someone forgot, or make life a little lighter for the people I love.
But if I’m honest, the temptation would be to use it for escape. To rest when I don’t feel like I can keep up. To avoid the hard conversations that tie my stomach in knots. To let the deadlines wait while I take a long nap or a long run. The pause button would whisper, you can hide here a while.
And isn’t that exactly what I already do? Not with time stopped, but with the small pauses I steal each day. I scroll on my phone, stand too long in the kitchen, or add “just one more mile” when I don’t want to go home to the weight of life. The truth is, if I had that button, I’d probably be tempted to live inside it. And maybe that’s the point: how I’d use it reveals who I already am.
The pause could be holy. Imagine stepping into stillness not to escape, but to pray. No interruptions. No rush. Just me and God in a quiet world. That kind of pause wouldn’t be an escape; it would be an altar. It would be like Moses climbing Sinai, or Jesus slipping away to the lonely places. A pause to remember Who is in control. Not me, not my problems, not my exhaustion.
But the pause could also become a trap. Because control is intoxicating. To hold the world still is to feel like you own it. And the more you bend the pause to your will, the more it bends you in return.
Here’s the question that lingers: if I dream more about escape than service, about hiding more than helping, then maybe it’s not the pause button that needs to change… maybe it’s me. Maybe the gift isn’t in freezing time, but in learning to live faithfully in the time I already have.
We don’t get a button to stop time. But we do get moments, real pauses, scattered throughout the day. A quiet mile on the road. A verse read slowly instead of skimmed. A breath between one task and the next. Maybe those little pauses are already the gift, a way to meet God in stillness without trying to control the world around us.
So the better question isn’t what would I do if time stopped once a week?
The better question is what am I doing with the pauses I already have?
Some of the most important miles I ever ran were the ones I wanted to quit. They were not fast or easy. They happened on days when my body was tired, my mind was heavy, and the last thing I wanted to do was lace up. Those runs taught me something no effortless day could — how to keep moving when every step feels like a decision.
I remember cold winter afternoons when the weight of the day pressed down so heavily that I almost stayed inside. On those days, I finally pushed myself out the door, even when I knew my run would be slower. Finishing mattered more than pace. It was a reminder that perseverance is often measured in the simple act of showing up.
That lesson carried into training with my son. Together we ran race after race, including a cool morning 5K in Birmingham that marked our fifth together. By then we had both come a long way from where we started. The race was not just about that single morning. It was the result of weeks of steady effort and miles stacked quietly when no one else was watching.
There were also days when I dreaded heading out the door, when the thought of running felt like more of a burden than a gift. Yet those runs often surprised me. As the miles passed, my perspective shifted, and I found myself realizing again that the journey itself held its own reward.
It is in these kinds of miles — the slow, the heavy, the unremarkable — that God has met me most clearly. He didn’t always lifted the struggle, but He always gave me enough strength for the moment I was in.
Surrender in the Stride
There is a kind of running that is not about pace or distance at all. It is the kind that loosens your grip on control and teaches you to let go. These are the runs where surrender becomes as important as effort.
I remember training days when I carried tension into every step. Sometimes it was only a short run, but those three miles were enough to shift the weight I had been carrying all day. It was not about speed or proving myself. It was about letting go and finding peace in the rhythm.
In time, I began to see running less as a way to prove something and more as a gift to be received. That realization changed everything. When the miles stopped being a scoreboard and started becoming moments of grace, the run felt lighter.
Even during serious training, surrender would surface. Preparing for the half marathon, I once found myself chasing numbers until halfway through the run I realized I was missing the point. It was not about beating a time. It was about settling into the stride and releasing control. That run left me with more peace than any record ever could.
The deeper truth, though, was that surrender in running pointed to something greater. No amount of training or discipline could heal the deeper places of brokenness within me. Running might teach me how to let go of control, but only Christ could free my heart.
These runs are remembered not for finish lines but for the way burdens lifted, steps became prayers, and breathing slowed into trust. The real victory was not how far I went, but how fully I let go.
Joy in the Journey
Not every run is about perseverance or surrender. Some are simply about joy — the kind that sneaks up on you mid-stride and reminds you why you began.
I remember one afternoon running with my son when a group of kids was playing nearby. Out of nowhere, a little girl looked at me and announced that she liked pizza. It had nothing to do with running, but it made us both laugh, and suddenly the miles felt lighter.
Joy came in other ways too. Training for the Mercedes Half Marathon, I ran through the streets of Birmingham with both my sons. We talked, we laughed, and I finished that day reminded of why I loved running. The city, the conversations, and the shared effort made it unforgettable.
Even the countdown to race day carried its own kind of joy. Twenty-four days, then seventeen, then just over a week. Each marker brought anticipation, not just of the race but of what the training itself was shaping in me.
There were also seasons when joy came not from one specific run but from the rhythm itself. I realized at times that the journey really was the destination. Running gave me both grit and joy, and together they made every mile more meaningful.
The joy in the journey does not mean ignoring the hard miles. It means recognizing that along the way, God gives moments worth smiling about, worth telling stories about, and worth carrying with you long after the run is done.
Looking back, I can see how the road became more than a place to run. It became a classroom. Perseverance showed me how to move forward when my strength was gone. Surrender taught me to release control and find peace in the rhythm of each step. And joy reminded me that even in the grind, there are moments worth smiling about and carrying with me long after the run is over.
The miles were never just about distance or pace. They were about becoming – becoming more patient, more trusting, more grateful. The road taught me that growth is not measured in trophies or times, but in the quiet strength built through difficulty, the freedom discovered in surrender, and the joy found along the way.
Momentum can change everything. It is the quiet force that builds when you keep moving in the same direction over time. In running, it strengthens the body and teaches the mind to endure. In faith, it deepens trust and draws the heart closer to God. Both are built the same way, not through a single burst of effort, but through steady and consistent steps that add up to something you could not have imagined at the start.
Momentum in running is not built in a single day. It is earned in the miles no one else sees, the ones that happen after work when you are tired, on mornings when the bed is warm, and on those days when the air feels heavy before you even take the first step.
When I look back, I can see exactly where my momentum began. It was not during a big race or a record-breaking run. It was in the middle of January, stringing together thirty to forty miles a week. Some runs were smooth. Others were a grind. Every one of them was a deposit in the account I would later draw from when the miles became harder.
Training for my first half marathon with my sons was where the rhythm truly set in. We mapped out a plan, stuck to it, and counted down the days. There were long runs that left me exhausted and shorter ones that felt like a gift. I remember the excitement building, twenty-four days to go, then seventeen, then just over a week. Each run brought me closer, not only to the race, but to a different version of myself.
Some days momentum came from pushing through something new. My first hill run was not glamorous. It was not even fun. My son said it was about an eighth of a mile, but I was convinced it was twice that. My legs burned. My lungs protested. When I reached the top, I felt like I had claimed new ground. That is how momentum works. Every challenge you take on makes the next one a little more possible.
By the time race week arrived for the Mercedes Half Marathon, I could feel the strength I had built. The final week was a balance of rest and light runs, my mind replaying the miles behind me. I was not just hoping I could finish. I knew I could. The work was already in the bank.
That same sense of readiness came in smaller ways as well. The first time I moved beyond a 5K, it was not because of a perfect training plan. It was because momentum carried me. I had been stacking runs for weeks, and one day I simply kept going, realizing I was capable of more than I had believed. Those are the moments when you realize that momentum is not just physical. It changes how you see yourself.
Not every run felt like a victory in the moment. I remember a training day where I ran 13.1 miles under nine minutes per mile. It was a personal best, but during the run my legs ached and my mind told me to stop. Momentum is like that at times. It does not always feel like flying. Sometimes it feels like grinding through when everything in you says to quit.
Week after week, the runs stacked up. They built something in my legs, in my breathing, and in my confidence. By the time race day came, whether it was a 5K or a half marathon, I lined up knowing the result was not decided in that moment. It had been decided in the quiet miles, the tired evenings, and the early mornings when I showed up anyway.
Momentum does not mean every run is perfect. It means you have put in enough work that even on the bad days, you can keep moving forward. It is the strength you build when no one is watching, the rhythm that carries you up hills and through late miles. In running, that kind of momentum changes everything.
Momentum in faith grows the same way, through consistency, persistence, and showing up even when you do not feel like it. It is not built on one emotional high or a single mountaintop experience. It is shaped in the quiet and ordinary days when you choose to seek God, trust His Word, and walk in obedience.
There have been seasons when my faith felt like those early training days, slow, awkward, and uncertain. I did not always feel like praying. I did not always feel like reading Scripture. But I kept showing up. Over time, something began to shift. Just as my legs learned to move more efficiently and my lungs learned to carry more air, my soul learned to rest in His presence and to trust Him more deeply.
The same truth that carried me through miles carried me through the spiritual miles of life. You cannot build momentum if you keep stopping completely. In running, even a slow jog forward keeps the rhythm alive. In faith, even a whispered prayer or a moment spent reading one verse keeps the connection alive.
There were times when life threatened to break my spiritual stride. Stress, loss, temptation, and distraction all tried to pull me off course. I learned that momentum in faith is not about never stumbling. It is about returning quickly. It is getting back to prayer when you have neglected it. It is opening your Bible again after a dry season. It is worshipping even when you feel heavy.
When spiritual momentum takes hold, you face challenges differently. You still encounter hills and headwinds, but you climb them with the steady trust that God will carry you. The small acts of obedience have strengthened your faith for the big tests. And just as in running, the rhythm you have built in the quiet moments becomes the strength that carries you through the storms.
Momentum in faith is not only about progress. It is about becoming the kind of person who keeps showing up for God, who keeps running the race marked out before them, who keeps their eyes fixed on Jesus even when the road is long. Because in the end, faith, like running, is not about speed. It is about endurance. And endurance comes from momentum.
“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, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.”
I never chased races for the medals. I chased them because they marked the journey. Each finish line was more than a time on a clock. It was a stone of remembrance, a witness to how far God had brought me.
Humility
My first few races weren’t about performance. They were about survival. In one of my earliest 5Ks, I finished in just over 31 minutes. It was hard. It hurt. But it lit something in me. The desire to keep going. The desire to become someone new.
When I ran my first half marathon, I wasn’t sure if I could finish. I reminded myself not to chase a time. Just keep moving. Just make it to the end. I finished in 1:44:11. Not because I was strong, but because I was faithful to the training. And because God met me there.
Joy
I remember the first race I ran where I truly felt fast. I ran a 5K in 22:10. I gave everything I had, so much that I needed medical attention at the finish line. But even as I caught my breath, I knew something deeper had happened. I had tasted joy. Not because I won, but because I gave everything I had.
There were races I ran with my son. We didn’t always finish together, but we shared the joy of the road. There were training runs with friends and solo miles that gave me peace. These were the bright spots. The good gifts. The laughter after long runs and the gratitude for what my body could now do.
Doubt
There were plenty of moments when I wondered if I could really keep going. During marathon training in the Alabama summer, I logged fifty miles a week. I battled the heat, sore feet, and the fear that I wouldn’t be ready. Even during taper weeks, I struggled to rest. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to heal. I just feared what I might lose by slowing down.
Before the Lehigh Valley Marathon, my goal was 3:29:00. I ended up finishing in 4:14:32. At first, I was disappointed. But then I realized something. I had done what I once thought impossible. I had finished a marathon. And in the process, I learned that grace has nothing to do with performance.
Gratitude
I’ve written before that every mile was grace. I still believe that. Whether it was a 5K, a half marathon, or the full twenty-six miles, every finish line reminded me that God had been faithful.
There was a time I couldn’t run a quarter mile without stopping. Eventually I was logging thirty or forty miles each week. That kind of change isn’t about willpower alone. It’s about mercy.
I don’t remember all my finish times, but I do remember what it felt like to cross those lines. I knew God had brought me there. He sustained me. He wasn’t just cheering from the side. He was running with me.
Endurance
Running never became easy. But it became transformative.
It became the way I learned to endure. It taught me to press forward when things got hard. It taught me to keep believing even when I couldn’t see the outcome. It helped me trust when I didn’t feel strong.
Each race revealed something deeper. I wasn’t just becoming a runner. I was becoming someone who refused to quit. Someone who would keep showing up. Someone who knew every mile mattered, not because of a medal, but because of the One who ran beside me.
Every race taught me something. But together, they taught me the truth:
Every mile was grace.
Grace was there at every start line when I questioned my ability. It was present when I crossed the finish, breathless and astonished. It stayed with me on quiet training days when no one was watching. Grace did not require a perfect performance. It did not wait for a personal best. It carried me when I felt strong, and it carried me when I nearly broke. Every mile I ran, every hill I climbed, every time I got back up and kept moving forward, it was never just about my own strength. It was always about God’s presence. And that, more than anything, is what made the journey worth every step.
Life works the same way. We all face moments that test us. Moments of pain, progress, waiting, and wonder. We walk through relationships, loss, growth, and small victories that no one else sees. The finish lines may look different, but the truth remains. Grace carries us. It walks with us through long days, quiet sacrifices, and unexpected detours. God is not just waiting at the end. He is present in the middle of it all. Every mile. Every moment. Every breath.
In 1 Corinthians, Paul says:
“I beat my body and make it my slave so that after I have preached to others, I myself will not be disqualified for the prize.” 1 Corinthians 9:27 (NIV)
This journey was never about running alone. It was about obedience, discipline, and walking out the life God called me to — not just in public, but in the hidden moments too. Like Paul, I’ve learned that the race is about more than effort. It’s about surrender. And what matters most is not how fast I run, but who I’m becoming as I run with Him.
“Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his love endures forever.” — Psalm 107:1 (NIV) “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.” — James 1:17 (NIV)
I never want to forget where I came from.
Not just the weight. Not just the numbers. But the quiet mercies that met me along the road. I know this story is not mine alone. Every step forward has been a gift from God.
I’ve said it before, but it bears repeating: I didn’t do this on my own. I didn’t lose the weight on sheer willpower. I didn’t run my first 5K or finish a marathon because I was especially strong. I didn’t wake up one day and suddenly have the endurance or faith I needed.
It was God. All of it.
From the first failed quarter-mile run to the long weekend miles in the sun, He was with me. From the moment a doctor said, “I can help you,” to the day I stood at the start line of my first marathon, it was His grace guiding me.
I think back to the early days when I couldn’t sleep well, when my health was slipping, when I was just surviving. And I remember how God began to build something new in me. Not through force. Not through pressure. But through steady invitations. One step. One change. One prayer at a time.
There’s a post I wrote not long after I began blogging. I was reflecting on the journey from 278 pounds to running 30 or 40 miles a week. I wrote, “I know all this came about because of the grace of God. Few people get the chance to do what I have done and believe me when I say, I am no one special.” That line still holds true.
Later, I shared the story of my conversion — how one summer afternoon, folding a sail after a trip on the Potomac, I prayed, “God, I love You.” I didn’t plan it. I didn’t expect it. But it changed me. That prayer became the starting line for everything else God would do in me.
Even in my running, even in the hardest miles, I carried that same gratitude. There were races where I pushed so hard I needed help after the finish. There were long runs that broke me down. There were days when I didn’t want to lace up. But even then, even in those quiet moments, I felt thankful. Thankful that I could run. Thankful that I had a family cheering me on. Thankful that God had given me another day, another chance, another step forward.
And on the hard days — the ones when running felt like a chore, or when life pressed down too hard — I still tried to find something to thank God for. A cool breeze. A quiet road. The shade of a tree on a 90 degree afternoon. A prayer in the middle of mile three. Grace shows up in the details.
I changed the name of my blog to, “278 to Boston” not because I had all the answers, but because I wanted to remember the question: How did I get here and where did I want to go? The answer is always the same.
God’s mercy, patience and goodness.
I ran the miles. But He carried the weight.
I did the work. But He changed the heart.
And through it all, the miles, the mess, the moments of joy and struggle, He never left my side.
This chapter of my story isn’t about pace or medals. It’s about gratitude. It’s about seeing God’s hand in the ordinary and the extraordinary. It’s about remembering that every mile was grace.
And grace deserves thanks.
Because when I look back on all the miles behind me; the long ones, the lonely ones, the ones that nearly broke me – I don’t see just a runner pressing on, but a Father walking beside me.
He never wasted a step. He never missed a moment. And He never let go.
So I keep running, not to earn anything, not to prove anything, but because I have already received everything that matters.
Forgiveness. Hope. Purpose. Life.
All of it, grace.
Thanks be to God through the Lord Jesus!
“Whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him.” Colossians 3:17 (NIV)
“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.
278 to Boston 