Perseverance in Difficulty
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.
