Jesus

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Thanksgiving in difficult times

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.

And you are not alone. I am with you. And God is 

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Epilogue – Still Running

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

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Discipline – When No One is Watching

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.

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Gratitude for the Journey

“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)

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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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HELP FOR THOSE IN SECRET LIVES

I have been writing for the past month about my life as a secret drinker, really more of a closet alcoholic. I drank at night and was fine by morning. I worked, I laughed, I went to church, but at night I drank. I have lots of reasons, but mainly it was because I hurt and didn’t know how to process that hurt or to deal with it. I felt alone and no one understood what I was going through.

Will I ever drink again? I don’t know the answer to that.

That last question and answer may be surprising. I answered it that way because only God knows if I’ll ever drink again. I am humble enough now to say that I don’t know what I will do tomorrow. I never thought 10 years ago that I’d be writing this post. I didn’t “believe” in drinking or that it was helpful in any way. I never thought I’d drink on a daily basis, but yet I did. Why? Because I am human and imperfect.

You know, as I write this I wonder about my neighbors. What are they going through that I don’t understand. What about my co-workers that I interact with every day. Is there someone that is feeling the need to get drunk every night in order to stop the stress and pain in their lives? I don’t know the answer to that. Are there those who are cheating on their spouse? Are their those who have just found out that their spouse is cheating on them? Maybe some are about to file for a divorce or have one filed against them. Maybe some are beaten at night or abused or even some that don’t know how or if they will live another night or even want to live another night.

I guess my point here is that I don’t know what you are going through and neither do you know about me, other than what I am willing to share here. Let’s not take for granted that our neighbor (home, work, church, etc) is living the perfect Facebook life. I can promise you that they are not. In fact, realize that most people you come in contact with are hurting. From the cashier to the landscaper to the CEO of your company, there is a crisis in their lives or about to come to their lives. They will say they are okay. They are handling the stress, they are happy and life is good. But perhaps they drink every night in order to forget the day and they are wishing they might just never wake up.

Be nice. Use their names when you see them. Smile at people and wave at your neighbor. Give a bigger tip to your server at your favorite restaurant. They may need that smile, waive or bigger tip in order to survive and you will receive an eternal reward for doing the very thing that made them live to see another day. You will probably never know that you were instrumental to their survival of their day, but wasn’t that Jesus’ point in the parable to the sheep and the goats?

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. And he will place the sheep on his right, but the goats on the left. Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’

Matthew 25:31-40 (ESV)