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.