It was July 4th, the morning of the Red, White and Boom Half Marathon, and the sound of my panicked heartbeat shook me awake to the fear that I had overslept.
My alarms, strategically set at 5:00, 5:03, 5:04, 5:06 and 5:10 a.m., had apparently been muted by my exhaustion. It was 5:45 a.m., and my race started in 45 minutes.
The drum of my heartbeat kept my tempo and a chorus of fear and excitement set my pace, carrying me out the door within minutes of my day’s abrupt start.
Before I had time to go through motivational quotes, listen to pump-up music, or calculate my ideal split times, my race had begun with the gun-shot slam of my front door. When my feet joined the congregation of footsteps that sang through the streets of Minneapolis at 6:30 a.m., I submitted to joyful dance that carried me to the finish line.
If you were to ask 7th grade Anna why she ran, she would say, "Because I’m not coordinated enough for soccer."
If you were to ask high school Anna why she ran, she would say, "For my team."
Stripped from obligation and humbled by injury, today I tell you that I’ve learned to run for the same reasons that I’m writing this. Just as a singer sings, a dancer dances and a writer writes— as a runner, running gives voice to my heart, and each course is its song.
Running, like writing, is a way I can surrender my whole heart to something—a privilege gifted to me solely by God’s grace.
And that’s exactly what I’ve learned to do—surrender.
If you had asked when I started my college career, I would’ve told you that I ran to stave off the dreaded “Freshman 15.” And it was true—each stride was a vain attempt to prove my discipline and ability to stay fit. It was only after the doctor told me that I couldn’t run for at least two months that I began to learn what running truly meant to me, and the grace behind its practice.
The elliptical whittled away at my body and spirit, and my heart was left with an unfamiliar emptiness and a yearning for the runners’ high that once pulsed through my aching muscles. I was achieving running’s supposed purpose by staying fit, but I didn’t understand what was missing that made running so much more fulfilling.
For six months I waited for recovery, halted by frustration and the pain in my right knee. I was thrust into the new, foreign rhythm that came with patience.
The first morning I ran without pain was the morning I realized the missing ingredient that had always been present in running, but consistently muddled by the vain belief that my strides were my own. The force that propels my runs and fills my heart is God’s undeniable, humbling grace.
Since this discovery, every run has been like walking on a tightrope. Every step that I don’t fall is a blessing, and every course requires an immense amount of faith. I surrender my body and spirit to the divine dance, and I allow my legs to keep up with its tempo.
Every run has transformed into an unavoidable form of worship, as I yearned for His presence and grace.
As I ran beside the Mississippi this past Monday, the sun’s warmth pressed on my face and gravity tempted my limbs to give in to its heaviness. But knowing the gift of each stride, my legs denied earth’s requests and responded by trusting the careful choreography laid before me.
The fulfilling feeling that comes with running came to me not at the finish line, but with every step I took with God by my side. My heart was full, and I was baffled by the undeserving joy that flooded my heart and allowed my legs to pierce through the morning sun-lit streets. I gave thanks for every pain-free mile, every negative or prideful thought that went un-entertained or overcome, and every prayer of thanksgiving that took its place.
Now, I run knowing that I couldn’t do it alone, and each step that I fully surrender to this truth is another step closer to God.
