Running.

Within the last year or so, my entire immediate family (which is basically a small village, if a small village had only five inhabitants) has gotten way into running. My brothers both run high school cross country, my mom has 3+ triathlons under her belt, my dad runs 5k races like a madman and my little sister is training for a half marathon. I have taken the role of slightly-out-of-shape-but-highly-enthusiastic cheerleader/photographer/cowbell ringer. Truly, I wish I could be inspired to athletic greatness and join the Fab 5, but I'm still waiting for legs of iron and the stamina of a gazelle. We'll see.

I am, however, good at a different kind of running. Running away. Okay, no, I have never packed a backpack of supplies and peaced out from home (though my siblings and I used to dress up as Indians and hike the wide lonesome prairie of our neighborhood streets). But I hate to deal with conflict, pain, and decisions. Who doesn't, amirite? So I run away from it.  I'm all "Ooooohh look at all that baggage on the side of the road! Not mine, suckahs!!" And the thing is, I have been pretty convinced I could keep running forever and ignore some pretty big stuff and it would all go away. Disappear behind a hill or a curve in the road. Hm. Wouldn't that be nice.

As luck would have it, this season of waiting is quickly becoming a season of growth. Funny how I make major plans to take charge and God's all like "Woahwoahwoahwoah... Nice try."  Running is getting hard, I'm winded, and there is a subtle (but growing) pull to stop. Turn around. Face the music. UM, HELLO. NO THANK YOU. But a still, small voice is saying "Trust Me on this one." I really can't ignore it. There is a rebellious part of my soul that is certain I can continue. Don't look back! it cries. Keep running, because stopping might hurt. But deeper down, in my gut, I know the truth of the matter: In order to grow, it is imperative to work through the hard stuff, instead of trying to run from it. I have been so focused on sprinting away from difficulty, I lost track of the race towards eternal glory (no, not the Olympic medal kind. The 1 Corinthians kind).

Jesus never promised as easy road. He didn't guarantee a life free from hurts. He DID, however, promise that anything we endure is not pointless, mindless or meant to injure. Rather, difficult circumstances (and the sometimes painful growing that comes from them) is a refining fire meant to leave us brand spankin' new, and of better use to the Kingdom for which we live.

With that in mind, I'm slowing down. Doubled over, totally out of breath, and letting that fire consume me. It might hurt like a mofo. It might be surprisingly easy. Who knows? But I do know I'm not in this alone. So thank God for that. Literally.