Hope is one of those words we use so much that its meaning often gets diluted. It gets lumped in with our ‘dreams and wishes’, but it’s more definitive than that. Hope doesn’t exist without faith. It has a little to do with faith in ourselves, but even more so, with faith in something outside ourselves. And also, quite simply, faith in others.
The story of the Apostle Peter serves as an excellent commentary on the true essence of hope and faith. For quick review, Peter was a loyal and devout disciple of Jesus. However, when s#@! got serious and Jesus was imprisoned, he denied any association with Him. Three times he did this. It was the very thing Jesus told him he would do and the very thing he swore he wouldn’t do. He felt so much grief over this. He’d given himself too much credit and didn’t put enough faith in Jesus’s warnings. But, from a moment of defeat, he gained the courage to make the ultimate sacrifice. He eventually became a martyr in Christ’s name. And somehow he remained hopeful throughout his journey. Peter was not without flaws, that’s probably why he was so relatable. He was aware of his shortcomings and through this humility he was able to strengthen his faith and hope. It was also through this awareness that he encouraged us to reach out and strengthen one another as well.
And that’s what brings me to this story…
I was sitting at a red light on the South Side on my way home from work, people watching as usual. Crossing the street was a young man walking 2 dogs. One of the dogs was missing a part of his front leg. He had wiry, copper-colored hair and a slightly pointy snout. He could’ve been the real life version of Santa’s Little Helper. He hobbled a bit, but his gait was just as brisk and peppy as the other, a white curly-haired dog. They pranced side-by-side and didn’t miss a beat. I suppose any animal lover would’ve been moved, but I was caught off guard when I started to get choked up.
I relayed this scene to my friend the next day at her house. “I almost texted you, because I was on the verge of tears! I don’t know why I was so affected.”
Her response surprised me a little. “Aww, maybe that should be the theme of your next blog; how we shouldn’t let adversities bring us down.” That was certainly a good idea. It would make sense since I’d be running in the Achilles foundation H & P race. Although, for a half second I wondered if her suggestion meant that she didn’t like my last post. That thought quickly passed. Does it really matter if she likes every post? She actually reads this crap. Like, she reads it and pays attention. If that’s not friendship…
And like I said, it would’ve been a great topic. The Achilles foundation raises funds for adaptive athletes. These are people that continue to push themselves through the toughest of obstacles. I can’t imagine having the strength to do what they do.
I thought about that the morning of the race. I was running both the 5k and the 10k. My nerves were especially intense this time, as I’d been battling some sort of hip injury. I was on orders to rest for 7-10 days. But not racing was not an option. My heart was beating in my throat until something shifted my attention. A group of young women- one in a wheelchair- all in neon green shirts, chatting and laughing as they made their way to the start line. The woman in the chair seemed happy to have such a great support system. I’m sure the others felt even more grateful to be able to support their friend. It’s a blessing to have good friends and it’s an even bigger blessing to be a friend.
The 10k, the second of the two races, began at the bottom of a fairly steep hill. I sheepishly jogged past the group as they pushed their friend up the hill. I was relieved to have finished the first race without pain. I went on at a steady pace for a couple miles and then it started. It was just a little nagging at first, but by mile three it became slightly more intense. A dagger on the front and side of my left hip. It wasn’t terrible but it was noticeable. It’s as if my body was saying, “I’m going to let you run your race, but you’re going to pay for it later.” I knew that, but I pressed on.
The next two miles were quiet. I even wondered if I’d somehow gotten lost because it seemed to drag on a little. I didn’t see any other racers and there weren’t any mile markers; just the sun breaking through the trees and the harsh wind in my face. I kept running, knowing that I’d get to the finish eventually. Then I saw the mile 5 marker; a 12- foot, yellow flag that waved in the wind like a beacon. I felt a sense of relief and elation as I ran past it. Only 1.2 to go! I was pushing even harder now. If I was tired or in pain, I can’t remember.
For the last tenth of a mile, my eyes locked onto the time clock. I crossed at 52 –something. The seconds didn’t matter because the minutes were too many. I was hoping for something between 48 and 49. I’d said I wasn’t going to give myself a goal time because of my injury, but part of me was sure I would be able to just push through it anyway. I was crushed. I paced for half a minute to cool down and then sat down on some stones that were bordering a grassy knoll. I wiped the sweat from near my eyes, they were burning. I pulled my knees up towards my chest. Pained and disappointed, I looked down and traced the cracks in the stonework with my fingertip. I wasn’t merely injured, I felt wounded. Why couldn’t I just push myself?
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