​4 years ago today, I ran my last marathon. The memory of the pain I was experiencing in that finish line moment has long subsided, but the lesson - the much needed lesson - has carried on.

I ran the marathon with my friend Tiffany. It was her first marathon. She'd committed to running marathons before this one in 2021, but it just never happened. This one, though - she was determined to let nothing stand in her way of becoming forever a marathoner.

Throughout the training leading up to this, she would frequently say, "Whatever it takes."

And I dare say, that day, we did whatever it took.

For many reasons, most meaningful metaphor for life has become the marathon.

Maybe that’s because the marathon mirrors the way life exposes us.
It reveals every weakness, every fear, every corner of ourselves we’d rather not confront. There’s nowhere to hide at mile 22. Whatever is in you - good or bad - comes out. Trust me!

In many ways, life is the same. We don’t get to skip the hard miles; we just learn to show up for ourselves there.

Maybe it’s because the marathon forces honesty. There’s no pretending your way to 26.2 miles. No shortcut. No façade. Life, especially these last several years, has demanded that same honesty from me - to face my truth instead of pretending I'm strong.

The marathon helped teach me that pretending doesn’t get you to the finish line; truth does.

Maybe it’s because the marathon is a slow becoming, not a single moment. No one accidentally runs a marathon. You become a marathoner long before race day. You become one in the lonely early-morning miles, in the discipline of lacing up when no one is watching, in the quiet promises you keep to yourself.

For me, healing has been that same slow becoming - a thousand small, unseen steps that eventually add up to something that looks like progress.

Maybe it’s because the marathon is where I learned what “capacity” really means. Not capacity as in talent or physical ability, but capacity as in what we can endure, adapt to, and rise from. My first marathon and each after showed me I had more in me than I believed.

Life has shown me the opposite too - that sometimes we have far less than we pretend.

Both truths matter.

Both shape us.

Maybe it’s because the marathon is impossible to run alone.
Even if your feet are the only ones hitting the pavement, you’re carried by the people who trained with you, believed in you, prayed for you, and waited for you. Tiffany’s “whatever it takes” didn’t just get her across the finish line, it got me across too.

I’ve come to realize that's true for most of us - most of our finish lines come the same way: on the strength of the people who stay close when the miles get dark.

Whatever it takes.

Or you know, maybe it’s simply this:

In the marathon, as in life, the goal isn’t to feel good - it’s to keep going. And sometimes “whatever it takes” isn’t about finishing strong. It’s just about not quitting.

I am proud of this 4 year-old memory popping up this morning. Proud of Tiffany and proud of me.

But more than that, I am reminded:

Whatever it takes..... 

​Yesterday was the Georgia Jewel Trail Race. The 10th Anniversary. I wasn't there, but I have been there before.

I have been there before and had my life changed because of it.

The memories of the change pop up this weekend every year. Always the same message. Always right on time. And the message, it is hard to see what's next when you have a death grip on what was.

Back in 2018, my first trip to the Jewel, I attempted to run the 35-mile Georgia Jewel. I quit about halfway through the race. I'd spent six months playing up how important the race was to me, how prepared I was for it, and how God was going to help me move every mountain that tried to stop me.

And yet, the mountains were too mountainous that day. Either God or I showed up too small that day.

I don't think it was God....

Coming up short on race day ended up being the least of my worries - at least when it came to running. For months after, I beat myself up for not finishing.

I felt like I'd let myself down. I felt like I disappointed a lot of people who'd supported me. So, for the longest time, having a bad run in Georgia made it impossible for me to have a good run anywhere else.

But that is the story of my life, really. Letting the years behind me blind me to the possibility to be found in the years ahead of me. I have always been prone to letting yesterday have a stronger influence in my life than today and tomorrow.

For the longest time after that 2018 Georgia Jewel race, when I tried to run, no matter where I was trying to pull off that run, no matter how many weeks and months had passed since that race, I was still in Georgia.

Still haunted by Georgia.

I couldn't move forward with what was next in running because I had a death grip on thoughts of quitting that Georgia Jewel.

I think we all want to be ready to tackle what's next; we're truly at our best when we are. Sometimes we'll even stand in the doorway and shout across the prairie of what is next: "here I come." But often, as we shout bravely into tomorrow, we hold onto yesterday and all its fear and shame and guilt.

We really WANT to walk out that door to what's next. We SAY we will. But we just can't let go. We have a death grip on what was.

We have death grips on our childhoods.

We have death grips on failed relationships.

We have death grips on failed business opportunities.

We have death grips on habits or addictions.

You know, the natural rhythm of life is 'next'. The earth keeps revolving, the clock keeps spinning, the calendar keeps flipping forward, the next season keeps coming. Life is constantly marching toward next.

Maybe our most toxic fight in life is our fight against that natural rhythm.

The flow of life is downstream. Too many times I find myself clinging to a branch in the middle of that stream - the 'what was' branch - I find myself clinging with a death grip.

If you find yourself there today, picture it. Picture your death grip on that branch. Feel how tightly you are clinging to it. And then, THEN - picture yourself letting go of it. Feel the freedom as you flow downstream into what's next.

4 years ago yesterday, three years after I quit that first Georgia Jewel race, I went back and finished that race. Crossing that finish line felt like letting go of that branch.

As the image of that 2021 finish line pops up this morning, I find myself needing that finish line reminder as much as I've ever needed it. The reminder that pieces of yesterday are always going to show up wanting to steal any hope we might think about trying to find in tomorrow.

Life always seems to be trying to convince me that my life is finished. It feels like that has always been the loudest and most unshakable voice in my world.

Yet, I find a way to keep seeing finish lines up ahead.

I find a way to keep chasing them.

And so maybe life isn't as much about letting go of the branch as it is staying committed to reaching for the next one in front of you. To keep seeing and believing in that next one in front of you.

I will be forever grateful to the Georgia Jewel. Maybe more than any person or experience in life, that race taught me - keep reaching for that next branch.

And it's given me the chance to say to you: keep reaching for that next branch. And if you're struggling to see it, well maybe that's because you have a death grip on one behind you.

​At dinner the other night, Solomon and I reflected back on the Summer of 2020. That Covid summer. That summer we did a virtual race across Tennessee. And back.

1,240 miles over the course of 4 months. (An average of over ten miles a day - as in if you skipped a day you had a 20-miler like the one below on tap the next day to jump back on track).

I told him I recorded 60 total miles last month, the most I'd completed in almost a year. But that summer of the GVRAT, 60 miles was a routine five days.

Every five days.

For 4 months.

How, I asked him. How was that even possible? How is it that only five years later I can't begin to fathom such an undertaking?

The thing is, I look back now and know the miles weren't the story. A memory like the one below pops up that when posted five years ago was about a race, was about miles, when today I know that wasn't the story at all.

That summer was the darkest period of my life. Without question. Which is a pretty dark label given I've experienced a few pretty dark periods in my life.

I look back and know that summer was all about running. Not a race, but literally, running. Running every day from the dark into the dark.

There was no escaping it.

It was the summer of Covid. The summer a marriage was rapidly approaching THE END. The summer my bad back gave out, never to fully return. The summer of losing the most meaningful friendship of my life. The summer of trying to do a work life from home that I'd become passionate about doing out on the road. The summer of watching my two boys hole up in their bedrooms, me wondering if they were ever coming back out.

Were any of us ever coming back out?

I didn't run that race across Tennessee and back to distract myself; many runners know you don't escape your thoughts out on the road. Running simply quiets the world such that many of those thoughts show up louder than they do anywhere else.

I didn't run that race across Tennessee and back to save my life, but I honestly believe it did. Because when dark thoughts get their loudest they are always begging you to make a choice - quit or keep going.

Many runners know that running is one of the best ways to live out the choice to keep going. Running is often the greatest reminder that you CAN.

And it was also the summer I started writing. Every day. I'd been writing for years, but this was the summer I REALLY started writing. The summer I started REALLY exploring the meaning of life. The summer I stopped pretending darkness didn't exist and started wrestling with it out loud.

Or at least on paper.

My life.

My journey.

Not the one I'd spent my whole life running from, but the journey I was actually running. Fiction turns non-fiction.

In many ways, that is the race I am still running. I had no idea that summer, in the midst of running from the dark to the dark, that my story was about light on the horizon.

I had no idea that horizon was in me - it had been living in me all along - simply waiting for me to discover it.

I think of that often as I read your posts on here. I find myself wondering, is this post your light, or is this post your search for it?

I think about that because as my daily memories pop up about my Great Virtual Race Across Tennessee story, I know now that was never actually the story at all. Not even close.

People around us are living out stories here and there every day.

It's always helpful to consider - with compassion - that might not be the real story.

It's possible they are simply running (or writing) their way to it. 

This memory popped up this morning. Three years ago today, I crossed the finish line of a 24-mile race at the Georgia Jewel.

It wasn't the furthest I'd ever run; I ran 37 miles just the year before at the Jewel. But I distinctly remember deciding to quit at the turnaround point halfway through this race in 2021. I was exhausted and dehydrated and I couldn't take another step.

Then, with a little encouragement from a friend, I decided to turn around and take another step and see how far I could get toward the finish.

I got to the finish.

There's a story in book of Joshua where God instructs the Israelites to take twelve stones from the Jordan River as a lasting memorial of how He stopped the river's flow, allowing them to cross into the Promised Land. Those stones were to serve as a physical reminder of God's faithfulness and provision whenever they faced future challenges.

When this picture popped up this morning, I thought of it at first as a Facebook memory, but then quickly thought of it as a stone. A physical reminder of God's faithfulness and provision when I needed it most.

I like memories, but oh how I desperately need reminders.

My friend Mary asked me last night if I ever get nervous speaking to groups. I told her a little, but not much. I told her when I am speaking, God always takes over. Like, I'll have sentences come out of my mouth that even I marvel at, because I know those sentences weren't mine. They were sentences I alone was not capable of generating.

But there are areas in my life where I am less confident. Where I am more prone to forgetting that God can show up in this challenge just as easily as he shows up in a sentence. I am thankful to have reminders in my life that point me to that truth.

We all need to pull stones from the river and stack them in our lives as reminders. Whether they are photos or journal entries or just moments of reflecting back on times in our lives when God showed up. Stones that point us to remembering that if God showed up in that moment of doubt, he will surely be here in this one.

Meaningful finish lines in our past are never intended to be finishes at all. They are to be stones. Stones that encourage us to boldly start and keep going in some future race in life. Especially when we get to believing we have no keep-going left in us.

So, I am grateful that Facebook pulled this photo from the Jordan River this morning. I will gratefully stack it upon my day as a testimony of what I've overcome in days gone by, and as a reminder that nothing that comes by me today can't be overcome.

Maybe you'll come across a memory today. Let it be more than a memory. Make it a stone.

​I've watched Cole Hocker's 1500 meter Olympic run to gold a couple of dozens times now. But it's not the finish line or his joyous celebration just beyond that or the podium scene I'm fixated on. It's something that took place 50 meters before the finish line I can't stop watching.

With the finish line rapidly approaching, a competitor ducked in front of Hocker. There may have even been a slight shove there, and the competitor began to motor away.

Hocker's response?

I'm not sure the dude even blinked. I know he didn't flinch. His concentration and determination were totally uninterrupted. He lost a little momentum in the brush-up, for sure, but his eyes didn't move even a centimeter from the target.

I always say, I'm not much interested in the finish lines people are crossing, but rather, I want to know how the heck they got there.

I want to know what they faced without flinching.

If you tell Hocker's epic upset story as the story of a man who ran 3 seconds faster than he'd ever run the event to win an unexpected gold medal for his country, you're telling A story, but in my opinion, not THE story.

THE story is when push came to shove, literally, Hocker refused to be shoved out of the path that was leading to a dream come true.

If you're a dreamer who is chasing a dream, like me, that's an important story to know. Memorize it. Because many dreams don't get realized not because we can't turn in our best effort ever, but because someone cuts us off in traffic and we throw a tantrum and quit driving.

The difference between dream crushed and dream realized is often found in the flinch. In those who do and those who don't.

Someone will cut you off today. It's coming. Whether on I-95 or in the gym or in a relationship.

Don't flinch.

You have somewhere to be, something you long to have or to achieve, and it's possible you won't ever get there, but don't let flinching be the reason you don't.

There is magic at the finish line. But the real magic often happens long before you get there.

Like many, I watched with great excitement and pride yesterday as Noah Lyles won the men's Olympic 100 meter dash.

After his victory, Lyles said, "I have asthma, allergies, dyslexia, ADD, anxiety, and depression, but I will tell you that what you have does not define what you can become.”

I thought about his words in a little bit of a different way reading them through the lens of my own life. I thought about just how limited Lyles' ability to run would be if he wasn't completely focused on what he was running to.

I thought about just how much slower he'd be if he was focused on all he was running from instead of what he was running to.

The last several years of my life, I have run into some of the most meaningful moments of my lifetime at a speed I never could have imagined. But it's not my speed that's improved, it's been my aim.

It turns out when you own that you've spent a lot of your life aimlessly running from things you didn't even always know you were running from, you then realize how aimless you are running toward things you've never really articulated you're running toward.

It turns out that we are all running one way or another, but the folks who are actually getting somewhere know what they are running to.

Lyles was not shocked by the 100 meter finish line yesterday. He's known for a long time that's what he was running to.

Reporter William C Rhoden said about the Olympic champions, "of course, this is what the Olympics are about. An athlete trains for years to be able to compete at the moment of truth. We saw Simone Biles do it in gymnastics and Katie Ledecky do it in swimming. On Sunday, the world saw Lyles do it on the track."

Many of us don't ever get to our moment of truth. Not because we aren't capable of getting there, but because we've never really defined what our moment of truth is.

What is your moment of truth?

What are you running to? What are you aiming at in this life? Only when you define that will you ever be able to know when you get there.

Some will say it's pretty difficult to know exactly where you want to go in life. Noah Lyles might disagree. I guess I would, too. Or, at the very least, I would offer that knowing exactly where you want to go is far less difficult than having absolutely no idea.

It's Monday. Maybe start out slow. Maybe you don't know where you want to go in life but where do you want to go by Friday? Maybe you don't know what your life is aiming at, but what are you aiming for with your week?

If you don't know, then where you end up Friday will be a total surprise. Noah Lyles was not one bit surprised by the 100 meter finish line yesterday. It's what he was aiming for. 

​A week ago, I sat here in my new apartment - angry.

I'd planned my whole Saturday around making myself available for my internet provider's technician to show up and connect my service.

I was told the technician would arrive between 3 and 5. As the clock ticked closer and closer to 5, I felt myself getting anxious. Maybe even frustrated.

Finally, in the closing minutes of that timeframe I'd been given, the provider sent me a text message. It was an apology: we're sorry we missed you, please reach out to reschedule as soon as you're back home.

I quickly picked up the phone and not so quickly connected with a customer service agent. The first thing I did was provide a little education; NOT showing up to meet someone is NOT remotely the same as missing someone.

The agent assured me, me the guy who had been sitting in my apartment for hours waiting, that they indeed showed up but no one was home.

A week ago, I sat here in my new apartment - ANGRY!

The next half hour of our conversation consisted of the song and dance we sometimes have to do with customer service agents. A dance that never seems to go well for the customer.

It's a dance I'm sure I never got to take the lead in, but in the end, I rescheduled my visit for yesterday.

I confess, I spent a lot of last week whining about not having internet. I spent a lot of time being a victim. I spent a lot of time threatening to get a new internet provider. I spent a lot of time letting the story of an internet provider not showing up dictate a negative story in my life.

Then yesterday, right on time, the provider's technician knocked at my door. I opened it to find a large, heavy set man. He was kind. Anxious to help. And in less than fifteen minutes, he had my internet up and running.

On his way out he pointed to a plaque on one of my shelves. He asked, "is that what I think it is?"

I told him it was a plaque a friend had made me after I ran one of my best half marathons several years ago in Lexington, Kentucky.

I thought it must be something like that, he said.

He went on to tell me that his sister is helping him train for his first half marathon here in Richmond in November. He said he had a 3-mile training run to do later in the day, a run he was feeling less inclined to do as the Friday work day wore on.

But seeing that plaque, he told me, that was the boost he needed.

He went on to tell me he'd lost 37 pounds since January doing his training. He told me all about the shorter races he had coming up this summer to prepare for his big day. And the more we talked about the ways running changed my life, the more excited he seemed to be getting about the changes in his life.

On his way out the door, he told me our visit was going to do far more for him than it could have ever done for me. His smile now the biggest part about him.

We fist-bumped with big enthusiasm. And as I closed the door, I could hear him giving himself an exuberant pep talk, even a few woo hoos thrown in there, as he made his way back to his truck.

As he pulled away, I thought, no, this visit actually did far more for me than it did for him, which had nothing to do with internet.

I found myself reflecting on a God who had somehow taken the keepsake that had been given to me to honor my success six years ago and used it to provide a keepsake to a man seeking success today.

I found myself reflecting on a God who didn't for a second see my missed appointment as a miss at all; he saw it as opportunity.

I found myself reflecting on a God who is often smiling through my whining. A God who is always ready to create a hero story out of my victim story.

I found myself reflecting on this miraculous God who can take a plaque gathering dust on a shelf and turn it into a moment as beautiful as the moment I first received it for a perfect stranger.

For whom is that a bigger gift when the dust settles, me or the stranger?

I found myself wondering, begging even, God, how can I see the kind of opportunities in every single moment of my life that you see?

How do I get better at skipping the whining and trusting in the beauty?

A week ago, I sat here in my apartment - angry. This morning, I sit here smiling, hearing the echoes of a beautiful man racing off to his truck to race home to his training run.

I thank you God for miracles.

I thank you God for perspective.

Thank you God for weaving the webs of this life I'm not often capable of weaving.

Thank you, God, for the stories in life that are far more lovely than anger.

​I took an 8-mile hike along the beautiful Creeper Trail yesterday. I took along nothing but water. I left behind the noise of the world and as much as possible, the noise that always lives within me.

I found immediate peace there. I was reminded that I've come to spend way too little time in the mountains and in the forests and in nature in general.

God reminded me yesterday that although He created me, my birth has its ultimate origins in nature. For the book of Genesis tells us:

God formed Man out of dirt from the ground and blew into his nostrils the breath of life. The Man came alive—a living soul!

God could have made us living souls come alive from anything. He chose to make us come alive from the very dirt I walk on when I hike the trails. The trails that bring me such peace.

Is it because as much as anything can, walking the dirt layered trails returns me to my roots? Is that why walking the sidewalks and the paved highways often feels healthy, but not always quite as peace-filled?

The creation story goes on to say, after God created us from nature, he planted us within nature. Nature living within nature:

Genesis tells us, God planted a garden in Eden, in the east. He put the Man he had just made in it. God made all kinds of trees grow from the ground, trees beautiful to look at and good to eat.

A simple tree, any tree, one among thousands, looks beautiful to me when I stop to look at it. When I stand there and stare at it and feel reminded that is the very purpose of the tree - to be beautiful to look at.

Why should it surprise me, then, to find such peace in the middle of a forest. A natural design created by the Maker to overwhelm us with beauty.

Since the days of the garden of Eden, man has been on quite the quest to create our own ideas of beauty.

Maybe that isn't a problem, at least not until we've abandoned beauty's original design. Or worse, when beauty's original design gets erased for man's designs of such.

When God blew life into the dirt and man came to life. And then God planted that life among the trees, how far away did God ever imagine man growing from that very place where he planted us?

Did God ever imagine we'd find greater joy among the tall buildings than among the tall trees?

Did God ever imagine the sounds of man would bring us greater joy than the sounds of a hustling stream?

Did God ever imagine we'd create something that would more readily take our breath away than the garden he created?

I don't know the answers to any of those questions. I won't pretend I do.

But I do know this. This is fact for me. When I am surrounded by trees and when my feet walk upon dirt, I feel closer to God than I ever feel anywhere else.

It occurred to me hiking yesterday that maybe that's because I am.

I was made from dirt. I was planted among the trees so beautiful to look at. Why should I feel anything but close to God, why should I feel anything other than a homecoming when I enter the woods?

I don't.

And yesterday was a reminder to return home more often.

​Our culture spends a lot of time living out a pursuit of happiness experiment. A lot of evidence suggest that for many, the experiment is failing.

In a lot of cases, it's failing miserably.

Maybe it's time for a new experiment? The pursuit of living.

In a recent podcast episode, Dr. Andrew Huberman talks about a region of the brain called the anterior midcingulate cortex (aMCC). Huberman focused on scientific data suggesting that when we do things we don't want to do, this region of the brain grows.

He goes on to talk about the discovery that this region of the brain is larger in people who see their lives as challenged but then overcome them. And with great enthusiasm he tells us, the aMCC is larger in people who live a very long time.

Huberman calls this one of the greatest neuroscience findings ever. He says the research suggests the aMCC is not the seat of human willpower, but more, it's the seat of the will to live.

The conversation was especially timely and powerful for me. There are several things I've given up this year, things that used to bring me happiness, yet in doing so have caused increasing havoc in my life.

Huberman points out that NOT doing things we want to do but feel like we shouldn't is equal to doing things we don't want to do.

I do a lot of work in resilience. I also consider myself hyper-resilient. Most of my life has been spent fighting to overcome challenges. Challenges I've created for myself, others life created for me. But it seems the sum of that battle has been increasing the size of my brain that has, until now, unknowingly increased my will to live.

It's this will that scientists are beginning to believe helps regulate our emotional response to stressors, and contributes to coping mechanisms that keep us moving forward.

That keep us living.

I often reflect on times in my life when I didn't want to be alive. There are times I wonder how on earth AM I still alive? This podcast conversation went a long way to helping me understand the answer to that.

Because day in and day out, I often got up and did things I really didn't feel like doing.

I have a long way to go, but how hopeful is it to know that it's our will to live that might contribute to living a long life more than anything else - including happiness.

How encouraging is it to know that when I go take that long run after work that I have NO interest in doing, the impacts of that may go well beyond the cardio workout?

How encouraging is it to know that when I write on a particular morning when I DO NOT feel like writing, I am doing more than pouring life into the world, I'm literally building life into me?

How encouraging is it to know that when I'm not happy, when I'm depressed and feel like doing nothing, just doing something is building longevity into my life.

And you know, for many, I SURE know it's true of me, the more you come to know that life will keep showing up for you as long as you keep growing your will to show up for it, happiness follows right behind.

Maybe you won't suddenly go out in the world today hunting down things you don't want to do. Even though the science is beginning to suggest that would be a really good idea. But many of us don't have to hunt. There will be things on our plate today we don't want to do, but will.

I hope it's helpful to know that doing those things is growing a very important part of your brain. The part that many are coming to believe is the seat of your will to live.

Add a few things to your life this year that you don't want to do.

Then do them, and keep growing that will to live. 

​If we're not careful, we can get to believing the key to an easy life is an easy life. Like there's a menu of lives or something. There's the hard life and the medium life and the easy life. And if we wait long enough, eventually someone is going to bring us a serving of that easy life.

Well, take it from someone who has ordered a sampling or two of that easy life only to have it never show up, it is NEVER going to show up.

The key to an easier (not easy) life is to accept that. Accept that waiting on the easy life is going to be a long, hard, endless wait. Accept that the key to an easier life is getting better at handling the hard stuff.

I have a lot of runner friends. Many of them run some crazy long distances. I'll see pictures of them 100 miles into a race and they are smiling.

Yes, SMILING - smiling after running 100 miles!!

It's easy to look at those pictures and think, I wish running came that easy to me. But that is not what their smiles reflect - running coming easy to them. Their smiles reflect people who got good at doing the hard task of running.

I think about my writing. I sit here this morning writing the 1000th article I've written and shared since March of 2020 (uhm, anyone remember what started in March of 2020??).

I've had people tell me they wished writing came as easy to them as it does to me. Now, I do believe God has gifted me with the ability to write, but if I hadn't written 750,000 words worth of articles the last 4 years, I would just be a writer waiting on words to show up.

We all have gifts. We all have contributions to share with the world. With each other. The problem is too many of us are waiting for life to get easier as the invitation for us to begin the sharing.

Well, I'll repeat. It is, after all, the moral of this life story: life is never going to get easy.

Never.

Ever.

Now that you know that, maybe today is the day to start getting better at doing the hard stuff. If you want a hint as to where to begin, I'd begin with the hard stuff you've been putting off waiting for it to look or feel easy.

Begin tackling it today.

And you know what, in time, life might just begin to feel like the easier life you'd been waiting on all along.