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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.

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Failing Forward

Somewhere between mile two and mile ten, things started to fall apart.

It wasn’t dramatic — no collapse, no ambulance, no headlines. Just the slow, steady ache of joints not used to this kind of repetition. The tightness in my Achilles tendon that I tried to stretch out, ice down, and pray through. The mornings I woke up limping and still pulled on my shoes.

I had to soak my Achilles in a bucket of ice after nearly every run. It was the only way I could manage the inflammation and keep moving. I’d limp into the backyard, still catching my breath, lower my foot into freezing water, and grit my teeth through the sting. It became part of the routine — run, ice, recover, repeat.

Eventually, even that wasn’t enough. The pain wouldn’t let up, and I started seeing a chiropractor. My body was trying to catch up to my ambition, and some days it simply couldn’t. The adjustments helped, but they also reminded me that every step forward came with a cost. I wasn’t just building endurance — I was holding myself together, piece by piece.

Building mileage felt like chasing progress with a moving target. I’d hit five miles and feel unstoppable one day, only to struggle with three the next. Every gain seemed to come with some small price — a sore knee, a tight calf, a bruised ego.

There were days I had to stop and walk, not because I wanted to, but because my body gave me no choice. I remember trying to run through pain, then spending the next week regretting it, icing my foot each night just to get back on the road.

But I kept going.

Not perfectly. Not quickly. But forward.

It was during this season I learned that failing didn’t mean I was finished. It meant I was trying. It meant I was testing the edge of who I was and slowly stretching beyond it.

Some weeks, my body needed rest. Other times, it needed courage. And sometimes, it needed grace — the kind I had to extend to myself, the kind that whispered, you’re not done yet.

Because every step, even the limping ones, was part of the journey. And every run — good, bad, or broken — was better than standing still.

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The Heat That Broke Me

The heat was always there.

Not just in the air — though Alabama summers made sure of that — but in life. A thick, heavy kind of pressure that clung to everything. By the time I got home from work each day, I didn’t just feel tired. I felt buried. Not by tasks or to-do lists, but by the weight of holding everything together.

And then I ran.

The routine was the same: pull into the driveway, step inside, pet the dog, greet the family, change clothes, step back out. The sun was still high. The air was still thick. My body was still tired. But I ran anyway. Up the hill. To the lamppost. And back.

The heat made it harder. It slowed my steps and stole my breath. It exposed weakness. But it also revealed something I didn’t expect — endurance.

Running through the heat wasn’t just about training my body. It was about testing my will. It reminded me that faithfulness isn’t proved in ease — it’s proved in resistance. That’s where the real work happens. That’s where habits are born, not in the comfort of ideal conditions, but in the grit of days when everything inside says, not today.

But during this season, another kind of heat began building inside me — one I wasn’t handling well. The stress at work was constant. There were relationships that wore me down. My thoughts rarely slowed, and by the time the run was over, I still needed an escape.

That’s when I started drinking again.

I hadn’t touched alcohol since college, not since I became a Christian. I gave it up back then as part of my surrender to God. So when I found myself reaching for it again, years later, it felt defeating. I knew it was a step backward. I knew I should’ve turned to God for help. But the pull was strong, and once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop.

At first, no one knew. I drank after my runs, quietly. It felt like relief — like a way to slow down the storm in my head. But I knew it was wrong. I felt the guilt, especially as someone who had walked with God for years. I told myself I could manage it. That it wasn’t that bad. But deep down, I knew better.

There was a moment that shook me — the day I came home from a run, poured a drink, and had an issue with our dog not coming inside. I went out to try to bring her in, but I was already tired, already loosened by the alcohol. I slipped into a hole in the yard. My quad was tight from the run, and when I fell, my knee went forward while my body went back. I tore the tendon between my quad and my knee.

The injury took me out of running for months. It should have been a turning point. I knew the drinking had played a role. That moment — painful and sobering — was a wake-up call. But even then, I wasn’t ready to let go. I knew I couldn’t keep walking two paths, but I wasn’t yet willing to fully surrender one of them.

Still, I didn’t stop right away. The drinking would continue for nearly a decade. I tried to quit. I wanted to. But the more I tried, the more it seemed to own me. Eventually, I did get help. I went to rehab. And God met me in that place, too. But even before that, in the years when I couldn’t find my way out, I kept running.

Running became a kind of truth-telling. It was honest. Unforgiving, but clear. I could fake a lot of things in my life. But I couldn’t fake a run. It kept me grounded, even when the rest of me was slipping.

And through all of it — the heat, the guilt, the injury, the shame — God never left. My family kept loving me. God kept pursuing me.

The heat showed me what I was made of — and what I wasn’t. It burned away illusions. And what was left? A man still trying. Still hurting. But still running.

The heat on the outside forced me to move. The heat on the inside forced me to face myself. Both were exhausting. But both were necessary.

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Learning the Rhythm (The Hill, the Heat, and the Lamppost)

There was a lamppost at the top of a hill.

It wasn’t grand or symbolic, just a plain old wooden post at the end of a quiet street near my house. But for weeks, and then months, it became the center of my discipline. My turnaround point. My finish line. My proof that I had done what I said I would do.

Every run started with the same goal: reach that lamppost. Touch it. Turn around. Make it home.

I didn’t love running. Not at first.

Especially not in the Alabama heat—thick, humid, relentless. But I ran anyway. Not because it felt good, but because I knew if I didn’t go right then, I probably wouldn’t go at all.

My workdays were full. I was in IT, overseeing systems for our company. It was demanding, and I enjoyed it, but it wore me out. By the time I pulled into the driveway each evening, I was tired. Not the kind of tired that makes you want to go for a run—the kind that makes you want to collapse on the couch and disappear into dinner, TV, and bed.

But instead, I walked in the door, said hello to everyone, pet the dog, changed into my running clothes, and walked right back outside. That rhythm—day after day, same time, same steps—was everything.

It didn’t matter if it was ninety-five degrees or if my body begged for a break. I had to go. Because I wasn’t just trying to lose weight anymore, I was building something. Something deeper. And to build it, I needed consistency.

At first, I stuck to a simple route: from my house to that lamppost and back. One mile out. One mile home. The hill leading up to it burned every time. Some days it felt like a mountain. But I’d push to the top, touch the post, and know: I didn’t quit.

That lamppost became more than a destination. It became a line in my day. A marker of effort. A quiet kind of altar where I laid down excuses and picked up a little more grit.

My family noticed.

My wife and kids knew I had just come home from work, but they gave me that space. They knew I needed it. They encouraged it. And when race days came—5Ks on early Saturday mornings—they were there. Cheering. Smiling. Making it fun. That meant everything.

But most of the time, it wasn’t about races. It was just me and the pavement. Day after day. One step at a time.

Over time, the run became more than exercise. It became a boundary, a line in the day between everything I had carried and everything I still hoped for. It was where I reset. Where I pushed through the tension of work and fatigue and stress. And in that rhythm, I started to feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time: control.

Not over everything. But over something.

The repetition shaped me.

Not just physically—though the weight was slowly coming off—but mentally, emotionally, spiritually. My energy improved. I started sleeping better. I felt lighter. More focused. Even a little more confident.

And I started noticing changes outside of running, too. I was more organized at work. More present at home. More grounded in my choices. What I ate. When I went to bed. How I prayed. It all started to line up.

The discipline I found on the road spilled into the rest of my life.

There’s a strength that comes from doing the hard thing when you don’t feel like it. A kind of steady muscle that builds when you say, I don’t want to, but I will.

That’s what running after work taught me. It taught me to build a life on follow-through. On rhythm. On showing up, especially when it’s not easy.

God didn’t meet me in fireworks or breakthroughs. He met me at the lamppost. In that quiet decision: to run up the hill, touch the post, and come home. To try again the next day. And the one after that.

That’s where the foundation was laid. Not in one big transformation, but in the rhythm of a thousand small choices.

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I Can Fix You – The beginning of the Journey

“I can fix you.”

That’s what the doctor said—straight-faced, out of nowhere, and completely unexpected.

We were at the doctor’s office for my wife—a weight loss appointment, not mine. Nothing urgent. Nothing about me. I was simply the guy in the corner chair, tagging along. But in that moment, everything shifted. Just a regular visit, nothing urgent. I sat in the corner of the exam room, trying to be supportive, polite, quiet. That’s what husbands do, right? I was tired, but I was always tired. Tired felt normal by then.

The doctor came in, greeted her, and started the usual routine. He asked about symptoms, checked vitals, tapped some notes into the chart. I wasn’t expecting anything. This had nothing to do with me.

But then he looked up—past her—and saw me.

He looked at me directly. Not casually, not out of curiosity, but with a kind of stillness. He asked a few questions—nothing invasive. Then, without hesitation, he said:

“I can fix you.”

That’s what he said. Calm. Direct. No build-up, no preamble. Just that.

I laughed a little—awkward, defensive. Me? I wasn’t the one on the table. But deep down, I was frozen. Shocked. And if I’m honest… something in me sparked. Just barely.

Because I had given up.

I’d tried to lose weight more times than I could count. Every diet, every plan. The weight always came back—plus some. It had been climbing steadily since college, a twenty-year upward slope that felt irreversible. I had reached 278 pounds. I didn’t see a way back. And somewhere along the line, I had stopped hoping there could be one.

That doctor didn’t know any of that. He didn’t know the quiet desperation under my smile, or how much effort it took just to sit down and get back up. He didn’t know how many times I’d avoided mirrors or cameras or stairs. He just looked at me and saw something I couldn’t: a man who wasn’t beyond help.

And he said it again. Gently, but firmly.

“I can fix you.”

I left that appointment quiet. Skeptical, yes—but also different. Not transformed. Not suddenly motivated or enlightened. Just aware. Aware that maybe the story I’d accepted about myself wasn’t the only one that could be told.

Because the truth is, I wasn’t in a good place—not just physically, but emotionally. Life had been hard. There had been pain with family, stress at work, tension in the home. I had responsibilities and a good heart, but my body was heavy, my mind was worn down, and I couldn’t remember the last time I truly felt good—really good—in my own skin.

I still had faith. That was never in question. Ever since the summer I told God “I love you” for the first time, I’d never doubted my salvation or His presence in my life. But that doesn’t mean I was okay.

Even strong faith can get buried under the weight of years.

I didn’t know it then, but that doctor’s comment—so simple, so unexpected—was the first crack in the shell I’d been carrying. The first step in a journey I hadn’t even begun to imagine yet. One that would lead to miles on the pavement, habits I never thought I’d build, and a kind of freedom I had almost forgotten existed.

It didn’t start with a run.
It didn’t even start with a decision.

It started with a sentence.
It started with a whisper of hope.

And long before I ever laced up a pair of running shoes, God had already been laying the foundation. The roots of transformation go deeper than the weight. They go all the way back—to childhood, to calling, to faith.

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The early years

The journey to 278 pounds

Before the running. Before the weight loss. Before the marathon. There was faith.

Not the kind passed down in family traditions or shaped by weekly church attendance. I didn’t grow up in a house where we talked about God. But He found His way in anyway.

I was around eight years old when a friend from the neighborhood invited me to church. He talked to me about Jesus, and I remember following along, more curious than convicted. It wasn’t a deep moment of awakening—just a quiet introduction. A seed planted. One that would lie dormant for a while.

Years passed before anything really changed. It wasn’t until the summer between my freshman and sophomore years of college, when I was on my own, that something happened—something I didn’t cause, something I didn’t even understand fully at the time. I prayed, alone, and told God, “I love you.” And immediately, I knew—that’s strange. I’ve never said that before.

That prayer changed everything. Not because I said it, but because God moved. That moment became the pivot point in my life. Nothing was ever the same after that.

It was the beginning—not just of belief, but of transformation. Quiet, steady, and completely unearned. From that moment on, every step, every stumble, and every victory that followed would trace back to that summer. The marathon might have come years later, but the real starting line was faith.

My life began to shift in every way. The people I spent time with began to fade and change. Friends who shared my growing hunger for God came into the picture. The usual rhythms of a college student—parties, distractions, figuring life out alone—no longer appealed to me. What I wanted was time to pray. To learn. To grow.

And as I grew, God kept unfolding more. I didn’t chase leadership—it found me. I started leading among the college students around me. Not because I had all the answers, but because I was willing to walk the road. Eventually, I graduated, got married, and started a family. And that desire to follow God didn’t go away—it deepened. I became part of a church community, and over time, I stepped into leadership there, too.

It wasn’t a path I had planned. But looking back, I can see it clearly: God was building a foundation. One I would return to again and again, especially in the years when my health, my habits, and even my identity would be tested. The early years weren’t perfect—but they were holy. They were the quiet groundwork for everything that came later.

My wife and I were drawn together by our shared love for Jesus. We didn’t just want to build a life—we wanted to build a home that revolved around Him. From the beginning, our vision was to raise children who would love God like we did. She stayed home with the kids, teaching, guiding, praying over them. I worked to support the family and carried the weight of that responsibility with faithfulness. Through the hardest seasons, she was a constant—praying for me, loving me, standing beside me when I couldn’t stand on my own.

As the years passed, things shifted. More kids, more pressure. Job changes. Financial strain. Sleepless nights. Life had a way of testing everything we believed in. We stayed faithful—but it wasn’t easy.

Somewhere in that season, I began to carry a different kind of weight. Slowly at first, almost without noticing. But as stress mounted and the demands of life kept growing, so did I. Physically. Emotionally. Spiritually. The identity I had once walked in—leader, husband, father, man of faith—started to blur under the pressure of simply trying to keep up.

I didn’t fall all at once. It was gradual. That’s how it usually happens. Little compromises. Skipped prayers. Prioritizing work over rest. Food became comfort. And slowly, the disciplines that once centered my life began to fade.

I wasn’t running from God—I just wasn’t running toward Him anymore. I was surviving. Providing. Keeping up appearances. But inwardly, I was worn down. My body reflected it. My heart felt it.

The man who once prayed with boldness and served with joy was now struggling with shame, weight gain, and exhaustion. I still believed. I still showed up. But I was no longer living out of that deep well of faith that had carried me through college, marriage, and early fatherhood.

I didn’t know it then, but I was beginning a descent that would eventually lead me back to the starting line—where I’d have to choose whether to keep spiraling… or fight to return to the life I knew I was made for.

There wasn’t a single moment when I decided, enough is enough. It started small—just like the drift had. A doctor’s visit. A glance in the mirror. A sense that something had to change. I had reached two hundred seventy-eight pounds. But more than that, I had reached a point of soul-tiredness. I wasn’t just out of shape—I was out of rhythm with who I was meant to be.

With medical help, I started losing weight. Fifty pounds at first. It wasn’t easy, but it was necessary. That shift gave me a glimpse of hope again—a crack of light breaking through the fog.

Then came the run. Just one and a half miles. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t pretty. But it was mine. And when I finished, something in me lit up. Something that had been asleep for years.

That was the beginning. Of the miles. Of the habits. Of the long journey back—not just to health, but to wholeness.

And it all traced back to those early years. Not just the ones where I stumbled, but the ones where God moved first. The years where faith was planted. The years when He called me, even when I wasn’t ready. That’s the story behind the story. That’s the ground the rest of this journey was built on.

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Part II, Section 5 – Running with God

“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.

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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.

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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.

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Part I: The First Miles

When I first stepped outside to run, I wasn’t chasing a goal. I was testing a hope.

I had already lost 50 pounds, but I still carried the weight — physically, yes, but also mentally. There’s a kind of heaviness that doesn’t show up on a scale. Years of unhealthy habits, of shame, of feeling like I’d never get it right. That’s the weight I carried to the starting line. Not of a race — but of a quiet street in my neighborhood on an ordinary afternoon after work.

I remember standing at the edge of the driveway, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt that didn’t quite fit. I didn’t look like a runner. I didn’t feel like one either. But I had a small goal: run two miles without stopping.

It felt impossible and I didn’t make it. I ran one and a half miles and walked home. That was okay though. When I tried running 50 pounds heavier, I only got a quarter mile before I quit. So for me, one and a half miles was a win. 

The sun was still high, and the Alabama humidity clung to everything. I had just gotten off work — tired, drained, with every excuse in the world not to run. But something in me knew that if I didn’t go then, I wouldn’t go at all. So I started. Slowly. Awkwardly. Each step a mix of effort and embarrassment.

About a half mile in, my body was already protesting. My legs were tight, my breathing ragged. People passed me in their cars, and I imagined what they must be thinking. But I kept moving. Step by step. Breath by breath. And somewhere around the halfway point, a strange thing happened: I realized I wasn’t going to quit.

I wasn’t fast. I wasn’t strong. But I was moving — and I wasn’t going to stop.

That run didn’t change my life in one big cinematic moment. What it did was give me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: momentum. Not just the physical kind, but the kind that happens when you do something hard and realize you’re capable of more than you thought.

And then I did it again the next day. And the day after that.

My runs became a rhythm — not in the sense of easy repetition, but in the way they began to structure my life. I’d get home from work, change clothes, stretch out muscles that still complained, and hit the pavement. It became part of my day, like brushing my teeth or eating dinner. It became a habit.

That’s what changed everything.

I didn’t suddenly love running. In fact, for the first few weeks, I kind of hated it. Every afternoon, my body argued with me. But I kept showing up. Not because I was strong, but because I was learning the strength of consistency. I was building something, mile by slow mile. My body was changing — yes — but more importantly, my mindset was shifting.

This is where I began to understand the power of habits.

God didn’t meet me in a lightning bolt moment of transformation. He met me in the small choices. In the uncomfortable, sweaty, ordinary afternoons. When I ran even though I didn’t want to. When I chose grilled chicken over pizza. When I went to bed early so I could be sharper the next day. Habits became training grounds for growth. They were where grace and discipline met.

Those early runs didn’t give me Boston, in fact, at that time I hadn’t even thought about Boston. That said, they gave me something better: the realization that change wasn’t about intensity — it was about intention. About returning to the road day after day and trusting that what I was doing mattered, even if it didn’t feel heroic.

And slowly, things did start to change.

I was sleeping better. My energy improved. I felt lighter — not just physically, but emotionally. My confidence grew, even if only a little. My kids started asking me how my runs went. My wife noticed I was smiling more. And somewhere deep inside, I began to believe that maybe — just maybe — I could do this.

I could be the man who finishes something. Who shows up. Who runs.

And something else started to shift.

This rhythm of running — of lacing up my shoes every afternoon and doing the work — began to spill over into other parts of my life. I hadn’t planned on that. But it happened, almost without me noticing at first. Because when you commit to something hard and keep showing up, that commitment starts to shape you.

Suddenly, I was more organized at work. I was more present at home. I started sticking to other good habits — eating cleaner, drinking a lot of water, praying more regularly, even sleeping better. There was a momentum that bled outward from those afternoon runs. Running wasn’t just something I did. It was setting the tone for the man I was becoming and going to become.

Consistency in one area gave me clarity in others. The discipline it took to run when I didn’t feel like it made it easier to resist other compromises. I wasn’t perfect — far from it — but I was becoming faithful in the small things. And in that faithfulness, I was finding something important. A rhythm. A structure. A grace.

It felt like God was using these runs not just to change my body, but to build a foundation — brick by brick, habit by habit — for a life that was stronger, steadier, and more grounded than the one I had before.

I didn’t know it then, but I was laying down the tracks for the rest of the journey.

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278 to Boston – The book

I’m thinking about writing a “book” about my journey from weighing 278 lbs to training for the Boston Marathon. Not that I ever made that goal, but I found out that the journey became the destination.

Below is the introduction I’ve been working though. I don’t know that I have many readers on this blog since I started this blog so long ago and haven’t kept up with it over the recent years, but I figured I’d post this for myself and to keep me motivated. We will see where this goes, if anywhere.

Introduction: 278 to Boston

At 278 pounds, I wasn’t dreaming about Boston.

I was thinking about how to walk up stairs without gasping. How to feel normal in my own body. How to be here — present — for my family. I knew I was carrying more than weight; I was carrying years of habits, regret, and missed chances. But I also knew this: I didn’t want to stay there.

With the help of my doctors, I lost the first 50 pounds. That was the start. But what came next surprised even me. One day, I laced up a pair of shoes and ran a mile and a half. It wasn’t graceful, and it certainly wasn’t fast — but I did it. And something in me shifted.

My family had always been full of runners. My dad ran many marathons. So did my brothers. It was in our blood, somehow — I used that as my inspiration. But what pushed me forward most was my son. He looked at me one day and said, “We should run a marathon together.” That’s all it took. I wasn’t just losing weight anymore. I had a mission.

Somewhere along the line, Boston entered the conversation. Not because I thought I could qualify — I knew the time standards, and I knew my body wasn’t there. But Boston became something more than a race. It became a symbol. A direction. A way to measure effort, progress, and hope.

The way I kept going — through the plateaus, the setbacks, the long runs, and long days — was through habits. Small, daily decisions. Waking up early. Eating what fueled me instead of what numbed me. Logging miles when I didn’t feel like it. Writing it all down. I didn’t change overnight. I changed through consistency. God used habits to steady my heart and retrain my body.

That’s how my blog was born — 278 to Boston. It started as a way to track miles and meals, but quickly became something deeper. A record of struggle and progress. A place where I could be honest about what it takes to change. Not just physically, but spiritually.

Because through every run, through every pound lost and mile logged, God was there. Quietly calling me forward. Not toward a race, but toward renewal.

This isn’t a story about making it to Boston. It’s a story about what happened because I tried — and about the habits and grace that carried me farther than I ever imagined.

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Finally Another Half Marathon

Nearly 17 months after I checked myself into rehab, yesterday, February 12, 2023, I completed my first half marathon in nearly 7 years.

It was last February when, after a long hiatus I began running again. My son paid for me to run a 5K. I wasn’t happy, but it was important to him so I ran it. I hadn’t run in over 5 years and I wasn’t in shape. We ran with my daughter and finished very slowly. As I approached the finish line, my knee that I had surgery on years ago gave out and I collapsed. I got up and finished the race. I’m so thankful that he had me run that race.

Over the past year I ran most days and by the fall was pretty much running 3 miles a day for 4 to 5 days a week.

This November on my birthday my son gave me a card and my present was that he would pay $50 toward my half marathon… What? I can’t run that far. The most I had run in one run to that point was 4 miles. I had just started running again after a month off with covid and other issues. Now 13.1 miles???

I thought I’d give it a try and see if I could get in shape and then found out that the half marathon we normally run (the Mercedes Half Marathon) was ending this year after 21 years. That became my motivation. It was only 3 months until the race and I had to get to 13.1 miles.

I started with what I remembered from my past races years ago. I gradually increased my mileage with a long run and a rest day. I began running 4 miles a day with Sundays off and Mondays as my long day.

It took 3 months, but I finally got up to 12 miles on my long day about 2 weeks ago. It was a good run at a 10:44 pace. For me that was a win. I took the next two weeks a bit easy and then came the big day, 2/12/2023, yesterday.

My son and I both ran and were excited and a bit scared. I had forgotten about hill runs and knew there we several large hills on this course. But I was confident I could finish, hoping to run it in 2 hours and 30 minutes.

I decided to not look at my pace. I just ran to my body and how it felt. Long story short, I finished in 2:06:41 and a 9:41 pace.

It was fun, and I’m glad I ran. At the end of the race my son and I eat a barbecue sandwich and went home excited that we both had a goal and met that goal head on. Good bye Mercedes Half Marathon! It was fun, but now we have to look to a new race (and maybe a marathon)!