My Pace is Slower
(“The sun rose upon him as he passed
Penuel, limping because of his hip.” Genesis 32:31)
I never wanted to slow down. I never wanted to lose
the race.
I was the fastest in my class; well, faster than the fastest girl.
And that was saying something, she could outrun most of us.
But I was always middle of the pack with the boys, until, in
high school,
I ran a mile backwards just to prove I could do it. Track and Field
had no such event.
I did not slow my pace. Books ran through my fingers
like water.
I sold snow skis and Levis, I sold office desks and stacks of invoices.
I raced across the Midwest. Gathered youth from towns
in Oklahoma
to lock-ins and car washes, to altar calls and crowded basements. We
marched downtown, prayed for professors, and packed them in on
Friday nights with free popcorn and sodas. But
I was a school bus without a driver. I was grasping
for something lighter
than the dark and leaden way my heart left me in the middle and at the end
of every race. But I kept up the pace. I tried to measure my winnings by
the smiles I counted everywhere I went.
And then the bus crashed. The leaden darkness broke through
my
paper skin onto nearly everyone I knew. I had not wrestled with God.
I had not tried to wrestle with myself. (Or maybe someone wrestled with me.)
The stress and success were
butterflies that flew the nest upon the first falling snow.
Rest/unrest. Strong-arm/weak-mind. Smooth
takeoff/crash landing.
Days of running track became decades of wanting to take it all back.
I’ve stubbed my toe trying to get up. I’ve falling on
my face into the
red dust of the oval track. I’ve cut my feet running barefoot on gravel.
I’ve unraveled in the wind while everyone was watching.
My pace is slower. I limp when it is cold. Some days I
feel like
I’ve climbed a mountain with no way down. Others I am grateful
to walk around the marina, near the river, smelling the fish station
and salt. I walk the same route and do not care if I ever walk like
an athlete
again.
