Leaning Forward

April 27, 2017 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

I never realized I ran that way. I don’t think I ever thought about it. Still, she didn’t have any uncertainty as she said the words.

He can’t really see, but he’s sure that was you he noticed running by last night. Nobody else we know runs like that—leaning forward.

Leaning forward? I run leaning forward?

I checked, the next time I went running, sneaking a glance at my image in a shop window as I passed. I run leaning forward. Try as I might, I can’t change that.

I lean forward as I run.

I know it’s not the best way to run. I could use my core and back muscles better if I ran with an upright posture. When I think about it, I do that.

Mostly, I simply lean forward and run.

I want to get to the goal. Quickly. Leaning forward, erroneous though the concept may be, seems to get me there more quickly.

I’m beginning to wonder though, if that will always be true. I have leaned forward all of my life.

But, things change.

Years pass.

I am tired. I’m not the only one.

In more areas than just that of physical exercise, I have begun to plod more than to run. The energy, the zeal of youth, has begun to wane.

I sat on an uncomfortable table this morning and listened to my new friend’s instructions.

You’ll want to quit before the test is finished. Don’t do it! Push on through! It may seem that you can’t go any further, but don’t give in. We won’t let you get into any trouble.

I nodded my head sagely and with confidence. In retrospect, I feel like one of the sturdy dreamers in the old hymn when the Savior asks if they are able to be crucified with him. They told Him they’d follow Him to the death.

Well, we know how that worked out for them. The day of the test came and they scattered, terrified. At least one of them swore he didn’t even know the Man who had trained him for the day of testing. (John 18:17, 25-27)

Anyway, earlier today, this sturdy dreamer got on the treadmill for the stress test—really, I get stressed just thinking about it—and my new friend Dawn started the belt moving under my feet.

I didn’t do so well—just walking. Dawn told me as much.

Why are you marching? Just widen your stride and relax. You know how to walk.

I don’t stroll much. But still, I heeded her advice and relaxed, stretching out the length of my stride and kept up with the speed and elevation changes. It was uphill all the way. Every step.

And, just when I began to think I was almost finished, the final stage kicked in. I had to run to keep up. But, I know how to run, even if I don’t walk so well.

Finally! Something I could do!

I ran.

Wow! You’re a lot better at running than you are at walking, aren’t you?

My taskmaster laughed, and I laughed with her—as much as I could with my parched mouth and heaving lungs. I was in my element now.

Except, I wasn’t.

Panic isn’t a word I like to use when describing my own state of mind. It’s the only word that fits for what followed.

I wasn’t going to quit. I wasn’t. But, there were points when I wanted to beg Dawn to slow the treadmill down to a walk again. It was irrational, I know. Sometimes you can’t control how you react to circumstances. I wasn’t in control.

But, I did finish the test and, shaky legs, heaving chest, and all, stumbled back over to the uncomfortable examination table. I sat there, grateful for a place to sit and settle my emotions, as well as get my lungs functioning normally again.

I didn’t quit! I ran to the very end. Leaning forward, hands on the bars, I had finished all of the stages.

I finished the test!

But, as I sit late at night, here in my easy chair, I wonder.

Can I keep leaning forward?

Am I going to finish strong?

Shaky legs and all, will I finish strong?

You know I can’t run the race in my own strength, don’t you? I never started it on my own either.

The Apostle—my namesake—wrote the words that echo down from centuries past and reassure just as much today as when he first penned them.

He who started the work in you has no intention of leaving you on your own. You won’t drop out. He will finish what He started. Count on it. (Philippians 1:6)

I will freely admit, there have been a few moments of panic in the last few months. More than a few.

Still, for all that, I’m going to keep running. Leaning forward, I’m going to run.

Even if it’s uphill for the rest of the way.

There’s a prize for the winner. It’ll be better than a gold medal, or even a crown of leaves. Much better.

I know I’m already in good company, but there’s always room for more on the road. Maybe you’ve been walking a ways, but it’s time to start running again. Why don’t you come along with me?

Run the race in front of you.

Lean forward.

Run the race in front of you. Run. And lean forward. Click To Tweet

The finish line is up there somewhere.

Up ahead.

Are ye able, said the Master,
To be crucified with Me?
Yea, the sturdy dreamers answered,
To the death we follow Thee.
(from Are Ye Able ~ American theologian/poet ~ 1892-1976)

Crossing the starting line may be an act of courage, but crossing the finish line is an act of faith.
(John Bingham ~ American marathon runner/author)

Training Session

April 19, 2016April 19, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ Leave a comment

I’m going out for a training session.

I called out the words to the Lovely Lady as I headed for the door again. She chuckled and reminded me to start my tracking program. It was a reminder that the training session is actually just this old man going out in a vain attempt to fend off the years.

The reality is that she may need to know where I am so the ambulance can be directed to the pick-up spot accurately. I frowned playfully, but I started the program on my smart-phone before I began to trot down the road.

I had just finished the first mile of my three-mile run when I saw them.

The gladiators.

They come to the municipal park every Tuesday evening, weather permitting. Using padded quarter-staffs and blunt wooden swords, along with a few other weapons I couldn’t name, they spar and they dance.

There is instruction. There is competition.

I almost always hear at least one exclamation of dismay as I run past; one warrior has tapped another in a vital part of his anatomy, bringing the bout to a rapid halt.

I confess I often find myself snickering as I pass these modern day jousters each week. It is hard to imagine a circumstance in which the skills they are honing so determinedly will be useful.

There is not much call for swordplay in the workplace these days.

Odd, isn’t it–how we make judgments about people based on their hobbies and leisure time pursuits?

I have seen those young men–sometimes a young lady or two–seriously attempting to perfect their craft, and I have relegated them to the file I keep in my head labeled insignificant and irrelevant.

I repent.

Tonight, as I ran past that gathering of young people, I realized that they had also noticed me in my nightly rounds.

They too, had relegated me to a category in their heads. To my chagrin, they would make that category clear to me on this beautiful, cool evening.

I observed, upon my approach to the grassy area where the group was tussling, a couple of young men, about twenty years old or so, who broke away from the onlookers. They ran on a tangent toward the path upon which I was running.

As they started out, one of the young men demonstrated his athletic prowess by running up a tree that was beside his route and flipping over backwards, landing effortlessly on his feet. Almost without missing a step, he and his companion continued on at a rate of speed which put them on the exercise path directly in front of me.

Then they did something odd.

Slowing down a little, each of them moved to his own side of the path. Given the speed at which I was approaching, I had no choice except to either slow down or move into the gap between them.

I wasn’t slowing down.

As I moved between the two young men, they sped up again to keep pace with me. The fellow on my left spoke first.

“How far have you run tonight?”

I answered him a little warily, still telling the truth—that I had just completed the first mile of the few I intended to run before stopping.

The other young man jumped in. “Wow! You’re still going pretty fast for having already done a mile.”

We bantered back and forth about running speeds and races to be run. Soon we were almost out of the park.

The fellow on my right dropped back all of the sudden.

“I’m done,” he gasped and, holding his side, walked back the other way.

The other boy, who would follow him fairly quickly, had one more thing to say.

“We just wanted to give you a little encouragement tonight. Have a great run!”

I hardly had time to thank him before he too, had turned and begun walking back toward the milling crowd of present-day knights errant, now several hundred yards behind us in the park.

I do. I repent.

I am ashamed. And, encouraged.

I had seen them, sort of. They also saw me, but with keener sight.

The young men in the park noticed an old man running through on his daily quests to depose the black knight of old age from his steed.

The old man, for his part, simply glanced their way, sniffed pompously, and dismissed them completely.

Those young men though—they had looked on a kindred spirit who needed help keeping his resolve and his confidence in place. Unselfishly, they took the initiative to meet his needs.

I have nothing else to say.

Their generosity has left me speechless.

Cups of cool water, shared under the heat of the withering sun, couldn’t have been more timely—or more welcome.

You know, don’t you, that repentance requires one to turn away from wrongdoing and go in the other direction?

Change is coming.

It must.

Therefore, encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.
(I Thessalonians 5:11 ~ NIV)

Our chief want is someone who will inspire us to be what we know we could be.
(Ralph Waldo Emerson ~ American essayist/poet ~ 1803-1882)

Glory Follows

February 26, 2016 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

Gloria virtutem tamquam umbra sequitur.

My son has a huge cardboard box full of trophies that still sits in a closet in my house. Now in his thirties, he values them not at all. It’s funny, but even back when he was a kid, they didn’t mean all that much to him.

Except a few. The ones that actually were given for accomplishing something had a place of honor on his dresser. The participation trophies? Relegated to the closet.

I will freely admit it. I may have been part of the reason for his disdain of the you-matter-because-you-showed-up awards. I never vocally disrespected them, but I did praise the hard work which went into earning the championship team awards, and the Best in Class plaques.

Praise should be given when praise is earned. Accomplishment earns a reward.

Don’t misunderstand me. I am an encourager. Atta-boys and way-to-give-it-your-best-shot messages are important, even essential, in the development of a child. If all they live with is high expectations, without support, they become bitter and discouraged. But, a pat on the back is not a trophy.

Encouragement is not glory.

The Apostle, my namesake, was clear in how he put it. In a race, everybody runs the best they can, but only one person gets the glory—the trophy. (1 Corinthians 9:24)

In encouragement, no one could fault the Apostle. Always, he built up his readers, coaxing them to reach new heights, but in this instance, he was blunt.

Run so you can win.

Period.

All of life, every part of it, takes place on the race course. It’s not a dash—not a challenging five kilometer run—not even a half-marathon. As exhausted as it makes me to contemplate it, the race is more like an Ironman Triathlon, only longer.

Swim nearly two and a half miles. Make equipment/clothing adjustments and hop onto your bicycle. Ride one hundred and twelve miles. Yes. One hundred and twelve. Make whatever wardrobe changes are necessary. Run just over twenty-six miles.

The whole course. If you want to win, you must run the entire series of races. They’re all part of the whole. Then and only then will a winner be handed the prize.

Did you notice the quotation at the top of this little essay? Cicero, a Roman philosopher, who lived in the first century B.C. said the words.

What’s that? Oh. You don’t read Latin. Neither do I, if it comes down to it. Let me try again.

Glory follows virtue as if it were its shadow.

As if it were its shadow.

Imagine. You’re in the race, swimming the first leg of the course. Two and a half miles, you have battled. Victory is yours! The crowd waiting at the water’s edge goes crazy with adulation as you wade out of the shallows, well ahead of the closest competitor.

Glory! They love you! What an accomplishment!

You plow into the crowd, high-fiving and fist-bumping as you go. Basking in the glory—glory you earned for yourself—you relax and exult in your accomplishment.

What’s that? What do you mean I’m not finished yet? I won, didn’t I?

Of course, you understand that it cannot be. One leg is not the entire race. While you were beguiled by the praise and glory of a partial victory, others have gone on ahead to complete the course.

Enamored by the shadow—glory—you turned away from the task at hand. And, just like that, the glory has disappeared.

Just for a moment, will you look with me at the picture Cicero has drawn with his words? If it helps you may even want to glance at the photo that accompanies these thoughts.

Shadows follow behind. As we walk toward the source of light, the shadow follows. It never precedes us. Never.

Glory only follows if we continue in virtue.

It almost seems cruel, doesn’t it? We achieve, but we have no time to enjoy the reward.

Can I tell you a secret?

Glory was never our goal. Never.

Virtue.

That’s our goal, always before us. Righteousness.

As we follow closely after God though, His glory will be evident—to those looking on. He himself upholds us. For His Glory.

His. Glory.

It stays only as long as our faces are to the Light, pursuing the prize. Turn to revel in the moment and it is lost.

Face to the sun, we keep running—or swimming—or riding.

Face to the Sun.

Glory follows.

My soul follows close behind You;
Your right hand upholds me.
(Psalm 63:8 ~ NKJV)

Swim 2.4 miles! Bike 112 miles! Run 26.2 miles! Brag for the rest of your life!
Whoever finishes first, we’ll call him the Ironman.
(Commander John Collins, USN ~ founder of 1st Ironman Triathlon ~ 1978)

Not Far Now

September 25, 2015September 25, 2015 ~ Paul Phillips ~ 1 Comment

The message from my fitness program caught my eye as I clicked it off after my run tonight.

“Paul ran 3.99 miles.”

I set out from home tonight with a goal of running four miles. I failed to meet that goal by one one-hundredth of a mile! Only fifty-three feet.

I failed.

It’s not a moral failing. The four-mile goal was an arbitrary distance, set by an ambitious energetic man, unburdened by the weight of fatigue. It hadn’t come down as an edict from Heaven, with grim repercussions to follow, should the course not be completed.

My decision to stop short was not a calculated one. The last two blocks of my run were spent alternating between gasping for breath, holding my side, and muttering a plea for the voice on my fitness program to announce the four miles already. The need for air and relief from discomfort won out over the desire to meet my arbitrary goal.

Still, I failed.

Tonight, from my comfortable office chair, rested and hydrated, I look at those numbers in the statistics. They mock me.

3.99 miles. Not 4 miles. Not 4.1. Three point nine-nine.

At the speed I was running tonight, it would only have taken six more seconds to reach the goal. Six seconds!

I’ll get over my disappointment with myself. I hope I can do better. That said, this is not the first time I’ve quit before reaching a goal. One would think a fellow would have learned his lesson.

My mind (and heart) has moved on to other things, even as I consider your disappointment in me, just now learning I’m a quitter. You’ll simply have to get used to the feeling. I have.

Tonight though, I’m wondering about how many people have spent a lifetime working toward a goal, only to give up within a stone’s throw of their objective. Tired and disheartened, uncertain of how much further their destination will be, their attention is stolen away by the attractions along the road.

Comfort could be theirs. They’ve never cared before, the reality of their mission imprinted indelibly in their hearts. But now? Now they’re tired—tired and lonely. Everyone around them is inside and warm, safe from the perils of the quest.

I know folks like this. Many glance at the roadside attractions and recognize them for what they are—nothing but bait in a trap. Focusing on their goal and the prize awaiting them, they turn away and go the extra distance, shunning the alternative. Be it fifty feet or fifty years, they will finish the course laid out before them.

But some—some no longer have their attention centered on the right thing. Somewhere, over the years, the focus has moved from the Author and shifted to the runner.

Look at me! I’m giving up everything to participate in this race. I’ve trained; I’ve sacrificed; I’ve put all I have into running.

And, they have. A lifetime of doing what is required of the athlete. A lifetime. But the focus is lost, the goal becomes fuzzy. The spirit begins to hope for other things, other prizes.

The race is lost. The runner is defeated—a failure.

So close. So close, but so far.

Years ago, I read a book called Watership Down. I thought it would be about adventures and battles at sea, but it turned out to be about rabbits. Rabbits. I went ahead and read it. I read it again. And again. You might want to do it someday yourself. It is a story of trial and triumph—a story of perseverance, and of finding home.

One of the long-eared creatures, Hazel, who has become the leader of the ragtag band of rabbits, is leading them to a place most aren’t sure even exists. Throughout the nightmarish journey, he keeps repeating the words not far now again and again. For hours he guides them through the dark, not sure himself of just where the goal will be found, but certain in his heart that the place for which they’re bound is very real.

When they reach their goal, they are ecstatic, admitting that even they weren’t absolutely certain the place to which he was leading them would be there.

They had followed anyway, trusting their leader, even when they weren’t sure of the destination.

How about it? Is the path growing dim, the road harder to make out? Do you have a catch in your side? Are you gasping for breath yet?

Sure, there’s a comfortable stop just over there—a place where others are relaxing and enjoying the evening. We could rest here.

But we haven’t reached our goal yet. That’s up ahead still.

Let’s keep going.

Not far now.

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinners, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart.
(Hebrews 12:1-3 ~ NIV)

I was so tired and confused, I actually began to wonder whether you knew where you were going. I could hear you in the heather saying ‘Not far now,” and it was annoying me. I thought you were making it up. I should have known better. Frithrah! You’re what I call a real Chief Rabbit!
(from Watership Down by Richard Adams ~ English novelist)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

running

Leaning Forward

Training Session

Glory Follows

Not Far Now