It’s about time I write something for this website, I suppose. Here’s goes nothing.

I’ve been feeling discouraged lately with my running due to a mild (I hope) injury. During a recent mental low point, I realized something:

When seemingly insurmountable challenges confront us off the proverbial field, our self talk sounds similar to what we say on it:

Either, “This is too hard.”

Or, “You can do this.”

Think about it.

When the spotlight shines down, when we’re forced to deliver an impromptu pitch to the CEO, fill in for the sick AP Economics teacher last minute, navigate a daunting diagnoses, deal with death, or bravely accept a new job — one we are not qualified for and have no idea how to do — just to put food on the table, we tell ourselves the thing we learned to say internally during the third lap of the 3rd grade mile run.

Either, “This hurts too much. Stop.”

OR

“You got this.”

We say what we sculpted alongside our stability muscles during the 97th visit to the PT for another ACL rehab session sophomore year of high school. What we tested when a mechanical gave the field a 7-minute advantage at the Leadville 100 MTB. What we figured out on Heartbreak Hill or the Go-Go Hill or B*** Hill. Sports, in essence, has always been a training ground where we practiced being comfortable being uncomfortable SO that when we could be tough when we face tough times in life.

It didn’t actually matter that much in the grand scheme of things back then — Presidential Fitness Test perfectionism not withstanding — but if we never learned how to do it then, how could we when the stakes were raised?

A runner friend of mine — in his late 40s — told me recently he was doing the Silver Rush 50 ….again. It’s one of the most grueling trail run races around, especially considering the disproportionate lack of notoriety/payout/etc.

Plus, he’s already won it once before.

“That is like, totally a brutal race — it’s so hard,” I told him, sort of hinting at my ‘why show up?’ type question without actually asking it.

He looked right at me and with this awesome expression of mature assuredness in his life decisions said, “Yeah, that’s kind of the point.”

We’ve all heard of how we learn ‘lifelong lessons’ in sport, but I think it goes deeper than developing a work ethic, understanding teamwork or learning how to receive criticism. (It goes without saying that obviously, the transcendent takeaways go way, way beyond medals and memories….)

I’m convinced sports offer a slice of greater heavenly realities. It’s why victory tastes sweet and losing hurts. And it’s why the redemption story resonates most for fans and athletes alike. The patterns God embedded into reality He presents to us in manageable (and less consequential) packages vai the artificial arena of athletics. They come through triumphs and tribulation — and are (just like in life) often more obvious during the latter.

Navigating this recent mini trial has reminded me of that.

Just for context: at the end of May, I returned to Colorado from Minnesota riding the high of running a fast 5K one night and doubling back the next morning with a surprising silver – to my older brother – in a road 10K. Both were special moments.

Immediately after, however, my achilles burned a bit. The next day, I limped around. After a few days off and a few more days of absolutely minuscule 5-10-minute baby jogs — using pain threshold and consistent improvement from one day to the next as my comeback compass — I thought I might be headed towards resuming normal training in a week or so. Unfortunately, the healing process has been a bit slower.

Despite my stubborn expectations, I canceled two planned competitions in June and am now facing the possibility of not competing in the Vail Hill Climb over the Fourth of July, a race I look forward to all year. Every year. It’s the 50th-anniversary of the event, and I will cover it for my work as a sports writer at the Vail Daily no matter what — which makes the pressure to show up higher and the disappointment of not starting that much greater.

This whole ordeal — and I know well enough it hasn’t been THAT big of an ordeal — has reminded me just how dependent on God …and not in control of anything… I am. Running is perhaps the most perfect, albeit cruel, means by which people can discover this truth.

Pounding endless pavement along arbitrary courses in the name of personal bests no one really cares about except the beholder curses those self-driven folks — with their objective definitions of success and black-and-white views of reality — who dare take it up. Running lures you in with improvement and post-workout dopamine highs until eventually you feel invincible on every front. Then it strikes you down.

One step and BAM. You break. You’re sidelined.

The fact is, you never really possessed autonomy over the situation. No performance is achieved through our own willpower, no mountaintop climbed by our own strength. In fact, not a single step is taken, not a single heart beats, nor tightly-wound tendon rebounds off God’s green earth without a sovereign decree from the King of Kings. By the power of His Word all things hold together, the Bible says. A single cell can’t repair itself, nor can the mighty mitochondria do its thing without the Almighty’s approval.

That’s just the way it is.

Every athlete, no matter how durable or dominant, is one twingy hamstring or rolled ankle away from having it all taken away. Just like in life.

Our savings, talent, job, fancy clothes, fast (or reliable) cars, kids’ grades or house size might deceive us into thinking we have it all put together and figured out. We might assume we’re where we are at because of our diligent work ethic, patient and prudent planning or brilliant intellect. Sometimes we need our Achilles to snap in order to see the truth.

Listen to what Job says in chapter 1.

“The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away.”

And later, after he and his friends question God, the Creator speaks to Job.

“Brace yourself like a man,” God says.

And then, He proceeds to tell Job how the world actually works.

“Where were you when I laid the earth’s foundation?
    Tell me, if you understand.
⁵ Who marked off its dimensions? Surely you know!”

And later …

“Can you bind the chains^[b] of the Pleiades?
    Can you loosen Orion’s belt?
³² Can you bring forth the constellations in their seasons^[c]
    or lead out the Bear^[d] with its cubs?
³³ Do you know the laws of the heavens?
    Can you set up God’s^[e] dominion over the earth?

And again…

“Do you know when the mountain goats give birth?
    Do you watch when the doe bears her fawn?
² Do you count the months till they bear?
    Do you know the time they give birth?

For runners….

….19 “Do you give the horse its strength

And my personal favorite…as a writer … (*just a hint of foreshadowing here…)

“Will the wild ox consent to serve you?
    Will it stay by your manger at night?

Safe to say, we probably won’t go through as many trials as Job did. But when they do surface, will we say, “I quit.”

Or, will we confidently — but with the admittedly humble caution of someone who understands he’s in total submission to a higher authority — whisper,

“You got this. Let’s go.”

What experiences null our tendency to succumb to the gravitational pull towards the former?

Even more importantly, on what basis do we derive any type of internal confidence with which we can boldly pronounce to ourselves the latter?

Most of us aren’t going to voluntarily do hard things. But maybe we need to put ourselves out there because, like my friend said, suffering a little is kind of the point. I can only speak for myself, but my answer to the above questions has become increasingly clear as I continue to train, push, dream, break and rise up again, believing all the while my next big breakthrough is right around the corner — and that I’ll be a better man when I get there:

Sports, if it was ever worth it,

only was because it was (and by the grace of God — and patience of my wife — still is) one avenue God used (and is using) to sanctify me.

Because I am His son. Because He is powerful. Sovereign. Loving.

And because thankfully, those things together mean He promises to works all things for my good and His glory.

Even pesky Achilles tendon injuries and missed mountain runs.

And so, on this Father’s Day, I’ll text my dad. I’ll go to church. I’ll do my eccentric heel lifts and epsom salt soaks. I’ll transcribe my interviews from yesterday and punch up my stories. I’ll put off taking the recycling in (again) so I can get out for a bike ride and make my quads hurt a little.

And when they do — in the quiet moment where my imaginative sporting spirit stirs up something spirit-driven inside me — I’ll reflect on the good, good Father I have. The one who was there all along, even when I didn’t know it, whispering to me when even I didn’t believe it:

“You got this. You can do this.”

Keep on striving. Keep on skiing.