When I was in high school, I fractured my ankle. Nothing as glamorous as a sport’s injury caused by a buzzer-beating jump shot or anything. I simply turned too sharply while running, and my ankle decided to stay in a forward-facing position instead of banking left with the rest of me. An x-ray, some ice and ibuprofen, and several days on crutches was the extent of the ordeal. Oh, and the fact that my ankle was permanently weakened, making it especially susceptible to sprains.
Due to this injury, my ankle required extra support during track season. Thankfully, my coach took a special interest in assuring it was securely taped and ready before any of my events. But no matter how solidly wrapped, on occasion, it would still turn, confining me to limping around for a few days while it healed.
I was a decent athlete in my younger days and was the lead runner for my team in the 300-meter low hurdles. I also mostly won the event at meets against other local opponents, except for when I was up against Paula.
Paula was a star performer for a rival team, and no matter how hard I pushed myself, I always managed to finish a step behind her.
Seriously — Just. One. Step.
Race after race.
Until the district meet . . .
That particular day, I was rapidly closing the gap and knew I was about to beat my long-time opponent. I was feeling strong and gaining ground — until my foot grazed that next-to-the-last hurdle. Landing on my weak ankle, I felt it snap beneath me as I crumpled to the track. Without thought, I rose quickly and finished the race, coming in second.
Right behind Paula.
I literally fell into my coach’s arms as I crossed the finish line. As usual, he had been standing off to the side, timing me with a stopwatch and encouraging me with his yells. When he saw me go down, he rushed into my lane and was waiting to help me.
“You blew your ankle, didn’t you?” It was more a statement than a question.
I nodded my head against his shoulder, tears of frustration and pain pooling in my eyes.
“You had her,” he said emphatically.
“I know,” I whispered, frustration at losing rising higher than the pain.
While still bearing the brunt of my weight with one arm, Coach leaned me back and peered into my face.
“Look at this,” he said with a slight smile, holding up his stopwatch.
The digital numbers staring back at me revealed my fastest personal time. And a new school record.
“I’m sure glad you got back up,” Coach said with a widening grin.
Then he wrapped his arm about my waist as we hobbled off the track together.
Although it has been more than thirty years (insert audible gasp of disbelief!) since that event, the memory of it has stuck with me throughout my lifetime. Honestly, I’m glad I didn’t win the race that day because the life lessons I’ve learned from it have been far more valuable than any blue ribbon I’ve ever received. Even more valuable than beating Paula in a race — although, I have to admit, that would have been pretty sweet.
Just a few of those lessons learned are:
1) Don’t let a weakness keep you from running the race.
2) Push yourself to your fullest potential.
3) If you fall, get back up as quickly as possible.
4) Finish the race.
5) When your strength is spent, fall into your Coach’s arms.
6) A personal best is still a best.
7) You can trust Coach will always be there to encourage and support you.
8) Life lessons are more important than coming in first place.
With all of this wisdom in mind, it seems a fitting way to begin a new writing season. This past year and a half, I have taken a sabbatical from many things. More aptly, God has enforced a period of rest upon me.
While this rest has been necessary, it has not always been easy to implement. Nor appreciated for the blessing it ultimately turned out to be.
Multiple times, I have found myself clambering, both internally and externally. And all the while, my heavenly Coach was telling me to stop and let Him wrap my weaknesses to avoid suffering further injuries.
I pulled back from many relationships and stepped away from various forms of social media. I began to say “no” to several opportunities, even as I cautiously said “yes” to a few. It has been a time of self-awareness and balancing the fine line between selfishness and self-care on a deep level.
Time and again, I have been tempted to fall back into my former and familiar ways. I’ve wanted to pick up responsibilities that were not mine to bear and capitalize on opportunities just because they were before me. Mostly, Sometimes I have stayed my hand when Father has prompted me to do so.
He has surrounded me with His presence, encouraging me to bring in the borders of my life and set boundaries, determining they will not be trampled. I wish I could say this has been easy, but truth be told, I’m so prone to activity that I may always struggle with over-commitment.
That said, I am slowly picking up a pen again and putting words to the wanderings of my heart. It has been long in coming, and many things I’ve processed throughout the past months may never be shared with anyone but Father.
I am beginning the journey of blogging again on a new site. I will include some of my former writings, along with fresh thoughts.
In the meantime, I am continuing to circle the wagons about my soul, guarding my time and space. And drawing grace from the God who holds me secure even when I feel unworthy of His time and devotion.
He is good like that. To love me in spite of myself and strengthen me when I am weary and weak.
If you have been (or perhaps are) in a similar place, I invite you to join me here. Let’s grapple together over timeless truths and come to terms with the questions of faith that may always dog us on this side of eternity.
I do not promise answers here, only honesty and a commitment to continue running the race before me. Trusting that, when it is all said and done, my eternal Coach will be at the finish line to catch me.
For now, I’ll content myself to hear Him say, “I’m sure glad you got back up.”