What I Would Lose To Run Again

I can’t walk, but I would lose quite a bit to run again.

In eighth grade I was taller than all the boys and I sailed over hurdles easily, if not with grace. I won or medaled in every 100 or 200 race that I began. Then I went to a state track meet and girls with chiseled legs flew past me. I was out of my league and thought that meant I wasn’t a runner.

In college I met a boy who reminded me how much I loved running, and we would circle laps around skyscrapers, wind our way through the city zoo, and fly through cornfields. We ran before school and after work, in golden light and late night dark. We ran though sun and snow – my favorite was rain. My first half marathon was with that boy, doing a victory lap around the Indiana 500 Speedway.

I wasn’t fast but I wasn’t slow. I was happy.

We married, birthed two kids before we had any idea what life would hold, and off we ran to distant states and his career in the Marine Corps. He would trudge through the woods with a pack on his back, falling into bed exhausted. I learned the Virginia trails running with girlfriends or our puppy at my side. Leaves crunched under my feet, and 5k’s kept me company on the weekends. 

Then between my body swelling pregnant, breasts filling, and babies growing – we moved some more and I kept running. Strollers and my husband’s flight-school schedule meant I squeezed in a run whenever and however I could – under Florida pine trees and along beaches with a group of women who were all praying like me that our men didn’t fall out of the sky while learning to fly tiny orange airplanes.

Next were deployments. That boy I met and married headed off to war – seven months in Iraq, nine months in Afghanistan. I ran through it all, pushing a giant blue sail of a jogging stroller with two small boys, sleeping, whining, and snuggling inside. I pounded laps around a Southern neighborhood that I felt completely alone in, then flew home to Indiana to see my mama and run dark icy streets, college campuses, muddy spring trails, and frozen cornfields.

I wasn’t sure what life I had chosen where the military dictated our days and motherhood unfolded without any instruction manual. So I just kept running.

I ran my way to seven minute miles and a 22 minute 5k, not because I was keeping track but because my legs flying was the thing that felt best to my heart.

My husband a million mile away, toddlers tucked in the jogging stroller – I was running a prayer. Punk rock and bluegrass playing in my ears. I kept running and I was happy.

Then a baby died and I held him still in my arms. There were hospitals and emergency room visits, funeral homes, and ashes in the sea, but four weeks later I ran one circle around our North Carolina neighborhood. Praise music in my ears, and I raced a detour through the trees so no one could see my tears and joy because despite a broken heart I was still running.

Another child graced my body – I swelled full and shrank strong again. Homeschool days kept me within the walls of our California home and interspersed the hours with field trips and beach picnics. It was harder to sneak away but I still ran, pushing strollers with children pedaling ahead and lagging behind to pick up leaf and pebble treasures. Some evenings the best thing happened – my husband came home from work early and I had a few minutes to race down the hill and along the sand, throwing myself into the waves and hurrying home dripping salty. 

Then there were more babies lost, these too small to sprinkle in the sea. I decided to run marathons and also tried to make enough money to adopt a baby. I researched training plans and adoption agencies. I dreamed of running each iconic course, and of another newborn. I lifted weights with my husband and swam laps during my kids’ swim practice. I kept putting one foot in front of another.

Then I was pregnant and nine months later our daughter was cut from me, healthy and pink. Life grew quiet in awe of the miracle she was. I walked along beaches, through gardens, across the overgrown field by our house with her wrapped close to my chest. Eventually though it was time to run again, slipping away while Dad and brothers fed her avocado and blueberries. 

Jimmy Eat World, Modest Mouse, Rage Against, Bleachers – all my favorites were there to carry me as my feet spun, legs pumping.

I ran and I was happy. I ran and the crazy path of almost forty years made sense. I ran a prayer, always a prayer. 

This running has always been a motion within; it has been my prayer, my solace, my adventure.

I don’t know that you need to know this or if anyone cares, but I need to write this out. I need to remember each jog and sprint. 

I need to affirm that I would lose much to run again. 

Because I don’t have a wall full of medals; I have a burning love inside that has been a quiet hidden foundation for many years. It has been where I have gone with others and away from others to enter fully into joy, life, prayer. 

The most difficult part of this injury has not been losing the ability to walk; the excruciating part has been being unable to run. People often speak of what they would give to do something again, but giving is often just another word for losing.

It’s time to learn what I would lose to run again.