Without spoilers.. (working title)
Once again, the weekend was a blur.
Saturday came and went with the breeze.
Sunday felt like sitting in a waiting room, waiting for the doctor to call me through for an injection.
I got sunburned - but it doesn’t matter. I showered, covering my body in oils and creams to replenish my skin. It can’t undo the burn, and it won’t stop it from happening again, but it helps. I’ll probably return to the sun next weekend anyway, if it’s still here. If it’s still shining, and we’re still orbiting around it.
I write to you, my love, because I have something important to tell you.
Something about how it ends, and how the world doesn’t.
That sounds sweet, but it isn’t. It’s bitter when put in terms you or I can understand.
I won’t give you the time or the date, that would ruin the fun. You’d be counting down, and suddenly what you loved so dearly would turn to ash in your hands, because you’d know it’s not forever. For now, that’s the only place you see worth, and that’s fine. I would tell you nothing is forever ... but you’ll discover there is something that is. That’s the only thing you must cling to. I won’t ruin the surprise.
You’ve been running a relay your whole life.
You have your lane. Sometimes you’ve stumbled across its boundaries, but it’s still yours.
Sometimes you look over to other lanes and see someone far ahead of you. But they are not in your lane, and, come the next corner, they might fall behind or stop all together.
For the last portion of your track, you’ve been running through thick, sticky mud. You haven’t seen any mud on anyone else’s track, but they haven’t noticed the mud on yours either. They’re too busy running their own race.
At first, you fought against the mud. With every step, it swallowed your ankles and calves. You’d wrench one shoe free just as the other was pulled under. You kept going, but soon realised you’d have to abandon your shoes.
And then you realised - you couldn’t run on mud the same way you ran on concrete or grass. No amount of thinking this is unfair would make it go away. You learned how to work with the mud, to move through it instead of against it.
You never saw it, but there was someone behind you, in their own mud watching you. They saw you slow down, then speed up when you removed your shoes. They removed theirs, too.
Tired but learning, you looked further ahead. The mud was starting to dry. It was getting easier.
And then you saw her -the next you- standing ready to take the baton.
You started to panic.
She hasn’t run through the mud before.
She doesn’t know how hard it is.
What if she didn’t see me take off my shoes?
What if she’s not ready?
The thoughts slowed you down. The mud thickened again. The runner behind you was closing in.
What if she overtakes me?
You were slower than ever, ten times more tired. The closer you got, the less faith you had. She was still wearing her shoes.
You tried to call out to her to take them off, but you could barely breathe. You felt so responsible, after all, you were the one who came before.
The mud swallowed your legs one final time. You fell forward, the baton just touching the line but not her hands. She bent down, pulled you out, took the baton, and just before she ran, you tried to warn her about the mud. But it came out as a whisper.
And then you saw something you didn’t expect.
You could hardly believe it. You thought you must have been weak, slow, until you noticed the muscle in her thighs. Muscle built because you had run so hard through the mud.
You looked down at her track. It wasn’t mud at all. It was broken glass.
She had seen you in the mud, seen you remove your shoes, seen you struggle and fall, and learned her own lesson. She couldn’t run the same way you did. She wrapped her feet in bandages, put her shoes back on, and prayed for the strength to run on glass.
You were so worried she wasn’t ready.
What you didn’t see was that she was ahead of you all along, as was God.
She didn’t know why you were slowing down. But God did. She saw it; God felt it. And God whispered to her to prepare to run her portion of the track, and once she got going, not to look back.
Though she wanted to hug you and tell you she was ready, there was no time. She had to catch up.
By the time she finished her run, she knew, shards of glass would be stabbing through her shoes into her soles. But she also knew the next you might be swimming through water.
And though the swim will not be easy, the one before can sit and bathe her pierced feet. You can wash the mud from your body and be clean again.
And when she emerges from the deep, you will run to her with a towel. Because you'll remember, you have swum before. You forgot, when you were in the mud, but you had almost drowned the first time and as you waited for the mud, you prayed to make it out of the water.
You’ll swim better this time.
My love,
I tell you this not to say I told you so, but so you know where to lean and how to learn.
You will never let go until you are ready. You will never come home until you are ready. But when you do, someone will be there with open arms, knowing what you’ve been through, knowing what’s next, knowing your mistakes and your regrets.
Even when you curse your opponent, or your old self for not getting out of the mud sooner, if it’s happening, you are ready.
Now run.
And don’t look back.
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