Un-Christlike Habit

Last weekend I ran the Marathon Park Prep Half marathon as part of my Boston Marathon training. It was a hilly and challenging course, but I had a really good run.

There were a number of factors that helped. For starters, I'm usually not that great about reading elevation charts; but this time, not only was I able to assess which miles would be generally uphill, I was also able to tell that the uphill just past the 10 mile marker was very steep so I was mentally prepared and I think that made a difference overall. It also turned out to be a great day for running: cool air but sunny. It had felt windy when I first checked outside, but the course must have been somewhat sheltered because I only felt a head wind along a short stretch of the course, which was nice. Finally, I just felt good that day. When I got up that morning, I could feel I would have a good run. I felt prepped, strong, and just ready to go.

As I crossed the finish line, I checked my time and was pleased to see I had broken my half marathon personal record. I got my medal and was feeling pretty happy as I walked to my car to go home. (Check here for a race report)

And then, the inevitable seemed to happen. I was driving, thinking back to the race, to the run, and soon started to wonder: "did I push enough? maybe I could have pushed harder. I mean, I really slowed down on that uphill and probably could have put a little more effort. Did I run at a half marathon pace/effort or a marathon pace/effort?" As these thoughts flooded my mind, I began to feel deflated, to feel that I had done ok, but could have done better.

But fortunately, I realized what I was doing and stopped myself, stopped thinking about these questions that I can't answer anyway, and allowed myself to enjoy the moment.

I'm not sure why I do this, but I know I'm not the only one who does: I do something and then look back, and maybe I enjoy an initial sense of accomplishment, but it doesn't take long before I start zeroing in on mistakes, or areas in need of improvement, and if I can't zero in on any of those two then I make stuff up that maybe, possibly, could be improved, but really, who knows if that's truly possible. Of course, it's not a bad thing to want to improve, to want to be better. But it does become a bad habit when the quest for improvement distorts reality by magnifying mistakes or aspects that could have been better and minimizing areas of success and accomplishment rather then allowing us to look at both of these with a sense of balance and perspective that is truer to what we've actually done. After all, the spiritual life is about truth and this scrupulous second-guessing doesn't exactly yield a true picture of ourselves.

Lent is a time to look at our un-Christlike habits and seek to change them. This would be a nice one to get a grip on. How? One of the things I know people try to focus on for Lent is kindness: be kind to others. Maybe some of us need to include ourselves in that and remember to be kind to ourselves too. When we look back on our day, on the things we've done or haven't done, to look first with kindness and a smile. After all, that's how I imagine Christ looks first.

Praying for New Life

Today I had 3x2 mile intervals to do. I do these on a nice flat stretch along the river. So I got up early and as usual somehow it takes me 30-45 minutes to get ready and drive myself over there. I suppose I should accept I'm not exactly the 'get-up-and-go' type.

But I did get myself over there and it wasn't anywhere close as cold as it was last week, for which I was thankful. I did my warm-up, a few drills, and got started.

I finished the first rep in this neighborhood with a nice view of the river. And there I was, just standing there catching my breath and looking out over the Merrimack river. It was so still. And quiet. I can remember times when the water's been very choppy. Not today. Everything was still. No wind. I looked around, noticing the bare trees. So bare they look dead. I know they're not dead, but looking at them, you'd think they are, they look so grim and lifeless.

And as I looked at the trees, I thought about how they will be looking in a few more weeks, I wondered when I'll start seeing some green buds sprouting. I was amazed at the thought that there would be green sprouts. Looking at them now, you wouldn't think such a thing would happen. But I know it will. I know that given a few more weeks, the trees will look very different: fully of leaves, full of life. Not so much now, but it will happen.

It's not so easy to be confident that God can bring about such a miracle in us. When we look at our barren areas, our lifeless parts, it doesn't seem that God would be able to transform those, to bring life to them. Maybe it's because we interfere so much? Or because we try to take on the job ourselves? Or maybe we've grown too accustomed and comfortable with these areas of our lives--who knows what God would replace them with...

Lent is a season that leads into Easter, an opportunity to invite God to touch those areas within us that have grown lifeless and still, and, more importantly, to trust that God can actually do this and wants to help us do this. I know I'm already struggling with my Lenten commitment. But I do want to experience some new life at Easter. So I pray not just for help, but to let God help me and to trust that God will do so. And that somehow, come Easter, some surprising buds of new life will be visible.

What keeps you from trusting that God can bring new life within you?