Advent Week 2

Hope For Those Who Are Weary

Monday, December 9

It was 1999. I had recently graduated from college and, to celebrate, decided it was time to push myself from the 5k races I was used to running as a Centre College cross-country runner to a full marathon. That’s right, 26.2 miles. I signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon through the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s Team-in Training program and got started.

I ran. I ran a lot. My new fiancé, Jarrod, trained with me, riding his bike (slowly, patiently) alongside me on my long runs—15 miles, 18 miles, 21 miles.

I raised money. I sent letters to family members, friends, asking for donations. I sold doughnuts to many supportive members of Faith on Sunday mornings (thank you!). I set up a personal donation jar in my tiny apartment. Eventually, I met my goal of $3,000.

I traveled to Washington, DC, along with thousands of other runners. I picked up my race packet the night before then headed off to a pre-race dinner where I ate pasta with abandon.

The morning of the race, with butterflies in my stomach, Ijogged nervously to the starting line. The gun went off and I started on a long, slow trek through the streets of Washington, DC—through Georgetown and Rock Creek Park, passing the monuments, the National Mall, the Capitol along the way. At mile 10, my college friend, Ben, jumped in to run beside me, to help keep me going. At mile 15, he cracked jokes with me. Hegrabbed a bagel from a Marine for me at mile 18. At mile 20, as I hit the dreaded “wall,” he persuaded me to push through it.

Onward and upward.

As I trudged through Crystal City at mile 23, my legs began to ache. I climbed the hill from the Pentagon to Rosslyn, battling to put one foot in front of the other. Ben’s pep talks grew stronger.

At mile 26, I knew I was close, though I couldn’t yet see the finish line just 400 meters ahead. I began to cry--softly at first, then in full sobs. Spectators who lined the streets cheered me on, as though they knew I needed each cheer to overcome the exhaustion that had taken hold of my body.

Finally, finally, I saw the finish line. I did it. I fought the good fight and I finished the race.  But I certainly did not do it alone. At each step of the way, there was someone helping me along.  Jarrod. My family. Members of Faith. My friend, Ben. The spectators. They were all Christ to me in those moments of weariness, keeping me going until, ultimately, I crossed the finish line.

In this season of Advent and in this marathon of life, Christ offers us hope when we are weary. When we cannot possibly see the finish line, when we cannot imagine crossing it, He is there, cheering us on, guiding us forward.

Onward and upward.

--Carrie Abner