I started the run with a prayer for devotion and mental focus. But something I’d eaten had scrambled my brains, and I could do little more than try to keep them from spilling out all over the road.
But the fool on the hill
Sees the sun going down,
And the eyes in his head,
See the world spinning round.
I came near blaming God – “Why is this happening?” And it was all I could do to pull my attention back into the present moment, over and over. But the grimness of the effort drove focus away.
Blissful harmony wasn’t an option – yet I felt that I could salvage my self-respect. And so I pulled my attention back inside my head and held it gently at the seat of concentration, at the point between the eyebrows, and vowed that I would not give in.
There was no bliss, or any great sense of God standing beside the trail, cheering me on. Yet I felt a good deal of warm satisfaction, from having fought and strained and not relented. And at the end of the run, I was feeling compact and centered.
I hadn’t crossed the enemy lines, but I had advanced and not yielded. To concede, eyes spinning, mind sputtering blankly, would have meant that the enemy had overrun me.
Spiritual effort begins with effort. An effort at self-restraint, self-control, and the difficult opening of the heart. Some days it’s easier, but it’s rarely effortless.
My path isn’t about quick solutions. It’s not about a bell that I can ring and summon God, who’ll rush down the heavenly stairs, thankful that I’ve called, and eager to please me. It’s about putting on armor and fighting for worthwhile gains. It isn’t about getting fit, or getting high. It’s about experiencing a larger joy that lurks behind a runner’s struggles. It is about self-transformation. Fortunately, God never asks me to jump higher than I can. One step is enough, but not the step beyond; He will wait.
