Mental Marathon

I remember sitting on the edge of the crappy pull out bed in the tiniest hotel room that four girls ever stayed in. We were cozy though, bundled between laughter and the bond of trust we had in the vulnerable moments we shared for the past week. I was sitting with my legs crossed, my hands in my lap and my face looking up. I was silent, we all were, but I was so in my own head I still don’t know what they were doing. Meanwhile, I was running a mental marathon. Each mile marker symbolized a greater fear of the unknown. My opponents were freedom and loneliness. They weren’t lagging behind me, but keeping a steady pace so that they were constantly in sight. Here I was, knowing I was about to cross this finish line that beckoned a decision. A decision I didn’t want to make, a decision I felt incapable of making. Somehow I was still running. My head felt like it was going to hit the pillow, the only safe place that felt like comfort and refuge. Sleep, if only I could go to sleep and this whole race be blot out. Freedom and loneliness only figments of my imagination destined to stay locked in a nightmare. I couldn’t stop though, because something inside of me trusted the force that moved me. A trust so deep and steadfast that it almost moved my feet for me. Journeying not alongside me, but within me.

For as fast as my mind was running, my body was motionless. I was lost within myself, feeling that this whole decision was too close to actually make, like trying to read a book but holding it right in front of your eyes. 

I still don’t know how my focus cleared to read the page, but it happened exactly as I crossed the finish line. The decision both written on the page for me, and presented as an unwanted trophy for my exceptional stamina during the marathon. I stood with my legs shaking and my weak arms awkwardly embracing the unwanted trophy. It was far too big to carry, but the same force within me miraculously made it possible however uncomfortable it was. Now I had to place the trophy on its mantle, just a few steps ahead of me. In a literal sense, the decision became clear to me, and I had the responsibility to make it happen. This all took place in a space of my brain so small I couldn’t ignore, crowded by the company of companions too close I couldn’t avoid. I had to move. I had to say something.

The next steps were unbelievably awkward as I held this decision waiting to make it a reality. I really didn’t know what I was doing at all. I had run this marathon for so long I forgot what walking felt like. The thing is, you don’t ever slow your pace when you’re in a marathon. You cross the finish line at full speed, with everything you have and everything you’ve given. There is no slowing down, but an abrupt stop. Then you’re handed this huge trophy to carry when you aren’t even ready to start walking.

This is probably confusing, or maybe it’s not at all. It’s what it feels like to make decisions after fervently waiting and seeking the Lord. People think of waiting (in a spiritual sense) as a sedentary act when it’s absolutely not. I am more active in waiting than any other season. It’s healing that feels sedentary, when we are unable to make anything happen and incapable of controlling the force of nature. Or God for that matter.

When we’ve waited for so long we unknowingly become more comfortable in the waiting than we ever would be to make the decision. After it is made, the following steps are awkward, uncomfortable, and always unknown. What does it look like to move on? 

I can start by saying that I am only in the process of discovering how by taking one step at a time. 

We have to courageously accept the past in order to move on. It takes boldness to embrace the story we have. We have to face the truth of how our history is intertwined in the fabric of who we are, and how we get to share Christ’s redemption. If we can accept our story for what it is, then we can have hope for how God will use it. If we don’t confidently hold up our story of redemption then we’ll never be able to experience the fullness of new life. 

We must learn to be content in the unknown. Notice, I did not say we have to be comfortable in the unknown. We don’t need to be comfortable, but we do need to be content. We need to trust the Spirit to give peace enough to fight anxiety. A trusting heart has the power to put fear and worry in its rightful grave. If we want to move on, there are surely moments where the waves are going to come and our legs may get shaky. Contentment says, “I am going to walk forward confidently even when I can’t see where I’m going. I can do this only because I feel a firm footing beneath my feet.” These are the moments we thrust ourselves into the Spirit’ peace, and lean into the unknown with one step at a time.

We practice the discipline of presence. We are prone to hurry. Whether we’re hurrying a job, a stressful week, a disobedient child, or the beginning of a new season. We want to expedite everything to the “best part”, but often we’re so distracted by the rush that we never actually enjoy any of it. We will be better if we practice being present, faithfully experiencing each moment, day, person, and season for everything it has to offer.