|
“Again I saw that under the sun the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, nor bread to the wise, nor riches to the intelligent, nor favour to the skilful; but time and chance happen to them all.” –– Ecclesiastes 9:11
“Sing to the Lord with thanksgiving; make melody to our God on the lyre…
His delight is not in the strength of the horse, nor his pleasure in the speed of a runner; but the Lord takes pleasure in those who fear him, in those who hope in his steadfast love.”
–– Psalm 147:7, 10-11
As dawn broke one recent morning, I headed out for a run, enduring that initial shock of distress emanating from a body and mind indignant at being called into to service at such a blasphemous hour. Yet, at the same time I was grateful that this aggrieved body of mine has been allowing me of late to run on consecutive days, which is a luxury not always available to me. As the Wisdom writer suggests, and my body keeps reminding me, time happens to us all.
Taking advantage of the super shoe cushioning heretofore unavailable, I was feeling pretty good about myself as my huffing and puffing settled into an actual rhythm … but then I heard the approaching footsteps. That’s alright, I thought, I’ve been passed before, and with greater frequency since my 63rd birthday. Time happens. However, when those footsteps manifested themselves in the person passing by me, I felt no surge of energy, but only the deflation of wounded pride. This was not the gossamer limbed, turbo-engined racer with a cabinet full of trophies. Truth be told, he may not have been portly but he was flirting with it. In fact, I had seen this guy out running before, and remembered thinking, “He’s moving kinda slow, but God bless him, he’s out there trying.” So, as he strode by me, wordless and only offering the sound of his heavy breathing, I was humbled by the reality that now I’m the guy people drive by and look upon me with traces of pity, whispering, “He’s moving kinda slow, but God bless him, he’s out there trying.”
In days of yore, when fleet of foot, I prided myself on regularly passing others without being passed, or in more recent days, at least speeding up at the sound of footfalls behind me, praying that I could stay in front until they turned off the road. Yet now, there seemingly are no other gears to shift into, and I am relegated to the role of observer as the more nimble-Nikeed flyers pass by, leaving me in the proverbial dust. Yet, as time marches on, the wincing and wistfulness subside, succumbing to the gratitude for the good grace of movement that is still possible. The body slows down as the clock seemingly speeds up. This irony is not lost on me, but as sprinting recedes in memory and plodding is known as reality, I find that I can still relish the privilege of seeing the early morning sun framing the sublime cumulous, cotton ball clouds with dazzling color and brilliant light. Thankfully, the race is not about how swift you are, but about what and who you notice and celebrate along the way. “Sing to the Lord with thanksgiving; make melody to our God on the lyre…His delight is not in the strength of the horse, nor his pleasure in the speed of a runner; but the Lord takes pleasure in those who fear him, in those who hope in his steadfast love.”
| 
