Fall Leaves
“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed;
perplexed, but not driven to despair;
persecuted, but not forsaken;
struck down, but not destroyed.”
II Corinthians 4:8-9
October 4, 2026
“You have one minute until the start. One minute!” the announcer called over the loudspeaker. Runners crowded into the starting area, a mishmash of sweaty smiles and anxious excitement.
I felt sweaty and anxious, all right, but the smiles and excitement eluded me. I toed the starting line, questioning my decision to show up. Why was I even here?
During my warm-up, I had bumped into a longtime friend I hadn't seen in months. She bubbled with joy as she shared a brief update about her work and family. Though busy, her life seemed to maintain a steady, synchronous rhythm.
“What about you?” she asked. “How are you doing?”
I contemplated how to answer.
Well, I lost all state funding for my school one week before it started. We're in session, but finances look very different than projected. My oldest son is facing some serious challenges right now. After navigating a difficult season of marriage, I’ve made arrangements for a separation. My three younger children and I have been living in a friend's spare bedroom for the past six weeks. We just moved to another home two days ago. My anxiety is so elevated that I'm not sleeping. I can barely breathe, let alone run. I signed up for this race series yesterday, but I'm already questioning my reasons for doing so.
All these thoughts raced through my head in a jumbled mess. I glanced at my watch. Five minutes until the start. No answer could adequately describe the past six weeks, so I decided to keep it general.
“Um, life has been really... hard,” I said. “But I'm here.”
I paused, still trying to sort out my reasons for being there. I hadn't quite figured that out myself.
“The younger boys wanted to run in the kids' race today, so I decided I'd run the adults' race.”
“Did you sign up for the whole series?” my friend asked, referring to the four-race cross-country series spanning the next eight weeks.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
She smiled gently. “I'm glad you're here.”
I took comfort in knowing she'd be out there running, too.
The race started, and I immediately felt the effects of my lack of training. My legs and lungs tightened as we climbed hill after hill. It took all my effort to put one foot in front of the other.
Halfway up another laborious climb, I slipped on a rock and fell. I broke my fall with my hand, planting it firmly in a cactus. Prickly pear spines embedded themselves painfully in my palm. I scrambled to my feet and continued running, picking out what spines I could see. Once again, I questioned my decision to run. Even the descents felt like uphill battles.
Finally, I could see the finish line and hear the cheers of the crowd. But as I reached the grassy field, I realized I wasn't going to turn toward the finish as I'd expected. No, I had to run past it, circle another half mile around the field, and loop back to the finish.
I wanted to walk off the course.
Eventually, I crossed the finish line, physically and emotionally spent. My hand still stung as I pulled out the remaining cactus spines. Was everything extra painful right now? It sure seemed that way.
There was no runner's high after that race. But somewhere along the way, I figured out why I was there.
I think it was an act of holy defiance. Proof to myself, and to the enemy of my soul, that I am still in the race.
Even when my lungs are burning, my mind is a mess, and I fall into a cactus, I can get back up and keep putting one foot in front of the other.
This race wasn't about winning first place. It was about winning the moment in front of me. It was about stepping outside, feeling the warm sunshine on my face, and enjoying my favorite season of the year. It was about reminding myself that I love to run, that I can do hard things, and that this season, too, shall pass. It was about the camaraderie of running alongside friends, knowing we're all doing our best with the moments we've been given.
In the weeks that followed, each race got a little faster, and the effort became a little easier. But the greatest victory was that first race.
Showing up when it hurt.
Getting back up when I fell.
And discovering that, even in the middle of a season I never would have chosen, I was still in the race.