First, we run. Then, we rest.

“Would you run a marathon with me for my 40th birthday?”

There were a lot of reasons to tell my sister no, the main one being I’d set aside running when I took up Lu a couple years ago. Could I do a writing chair to 26.2? And when? This summer was about publishing. This fall was about teaching. Around, underneath, over, and throughout it all were TroyBoys. I didn’t have time.

So, so, so many reasons to say no – valid reasons my sister would understand, and I’d have no problem using if they were for anyone other than Jeni. She’s the older one; there’s residual hero worship. But my ultimate “Yes” came from a more basic place. Running the marathon was my chance to support a person who has supported me and doesn’t often ask for help in return.

I assumed my body would fall in line with my “Yes.” Prior to my running sabbatical, I’d run most days of the week. I told myself that June was a grace month – an important reminder for a girl who wants to be where she wants to go right now.

June became July and July turned to August. People would tell me they saw me running around Oxford, and I’d apologize.

“No one should have to see that.”

The vice didn’t leave my lungs, and my legs felt like mush. I didn’t consider quitting, but I did question whether my “Yes” was a wise decision. I prayed about it.

There’s worth in not doing something well. There’s learning in the struggle.

Great. I trudged on. Mileage crept up. I coped with Sunday naps. My left knee started hurting. I popped Ibuprofen. My right foot caught tendinitis. I rested. As soon as I could put weight on it, I ran.

Here was my devotional on the morning of the marathon (Jesus Calling, December 9):

Be willing to go out on a limb with Me. If that is where I am leading you, it is the safest place to be. Your desire to live a risk-free life is a form of unbelief. Let me lead you step by step through this day. If your primary focus is on Me, you can walk along perilous paths without being afraid.

The devotional was the first and last thing to go well:

• My left knee started hurting at Mile 3. I took Ibuprofen, but it was like throwing Tic Tacs at a hungry lion.
• I started walking at mile 15.
• My fingers swelled up like sausages at mile 16.
• I started limping at mile 17.
• I squatted behind a cactus on the side of the road (context: AZ marathon) at miles 18 & 21. I called a friend who’s been suffering from a more acute version of this malady over the past year, and we shared a laugh.
• I called Matt at mile 23. He told me to keep going.
• The medic asked if I needed a ride at mile 24 – 2.2 miles from saying I finished my first marathon. “Yes!” I shouted with my last reserve of energy.
• I left the course without a finish time or a medal and with my left knee wrapped in ice and my right hand clutching a PB&J.

And I was fine. At the same time I’d been training to run a marathon for 6 months, God had been training me to fail one. It’s not that I had to spin failure, it’s that the failure didn’t sting. Every run from June 1 to December 9 had prepared me for it mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

There’s worth in not doing something well. There’s learning in the struggle.

2017 was a year. Celebrating my 16th wedding anniversary. My boys turning 9, 6, and 4. Publishing my first book. Returning to full-time work. That’s a lot of highs – some earned, some given, and none done perfectly or absent of struggle. I’m glad it ends here with a failed marathon and this lesson.

The blog ends here for 2017, too. My boys are home from break, and I’m going full-on mom and holiday for the next couple of weeks. When we’ve all had enough of that, they’ll head back to school, and I’ll head back to writing, but of the Lu2 variety. Look for me here early next spring.

Until then, I hope you enjoy your year’s-end. I hope you seize the early days of the new year. My prayers are with you and my gratitude. A wise man I know once said it takes a village to raise a writer, and you all have certainly done your part in 2017 to raise me. Thank you!