I am not a runner. I am not even close to a runner. I actually can't stand running. I played basketball in high school and running was our punishment for missed free throws or bad attitudes...and I must admit that I felt adequately punished while running my sprints down the court. So why, my friends, did I set a running goal this year? That's a question I've been asking myself a lot lately. Especially early in the morning when my freezing body is out pounding pavement!
Last year around Everett's first birthday I started having serious anxiety. Not only was I processing the anniversary of a traumatic experience, but I started stressing out about what awful fate would befall us next. When I found out we were expecting another heart baby, I started feeling guilty that maybe my thoughts were the cause. Guilty. That word can describe my feelings lately. I know it's not healthy and frankly it's neither beneficial nor enjoyable, but guilty I am. And about many things. I feel guilty about questioning whether our family and children could handle another heart baby--as if the baby was taken from me in response to my lack of faith. I feel guilty about not having the same fight and energy I had when I learned about Talmage and Everett's issues. I hope that Heavenly Father is not dissapointed with how I acted in the wake of Everett's diagnosis and surgery, but sometimes I feel like He might be. In a very loving sort of way. As if this baby was my re-test, since I failed it during the first go-around. But then I lost this baby. And I feel really guilty. I feel like I'm driving around in the passenger seat of my own life sometimes.
So back to running. Lately I think I've realized why it is important to me, and it all boils down to control. Hate it or not, I can go out every morning, huffing and puffing (both from the disdain of running and my lung's desperation for air) and finish my desired course. I may not be fast and it may not look pretty, but I can finish it. I can choose to finish it. And I'm in the driver seat.
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