Glimmers of Hope

Typically, in the week prior to a race, I spend a great deal of time thinking about my race, preparing for it physically and mentally by getting adequate rest and nutrition and visualizing how I would like the race to go. For the Beyond the Beach Marathon on September 16th,  things were vastly different. On September 9th, my Father-in-Law left his earthly home to be with Jesus. While it was not completely unexpected, things happened more quickly than we had anticipated when we first heard he was in the hospital.

As with any dark or difficult time, though, there are always glimpses of light that give us strength and hope when we need it. We were blessed to have the whole family together at the hospital when it happened . There were also two periods of lucidity, where my Father-in-Law was able to share words of wisdom and peace with us, followed by a time of prayer and singing songs of worship. The Holy Spirit was with us in that room, wrapping us all in a warm embrace.

Each family member worked through the events in different ways, offering a hug, a hand on the shoulder, or words of encouragement at the right time. In the moments after my Father-in-Law passed, I was in such a state of shock that I could not cry, despite the fact that I had already shed many tears throughout the weekend. My sister-in-law looked around the room and saw the pain and shock on our faces. She told us, “Dad isn’t here anymore. This is just his shell.” It helped me to accept what was happening and reminded me he was in a better place. While his loss leaves a hole in our lives, he is no longer suffering, but rejoicing with his King. He left behind a legacy of great Faith and Love, which will always be with us.

In the days that followed, I received many prayers and words or actions of comfort from friends, family, and coworkers. I recently started a new job and don’t know people very well yet, but I received a card from my team and several people stopped me in the hall or came by my office to ask how I was doing. As the week progressed and we did what we could to prepare for our time of mourning and remembrance, doubts began to cloud my mind about whether or not I would be able to run my marathon. Thankfully, I reached out to people and received reassurance that no matter my choice, it would be the right decision for me and my family. My Coach reminded me to be flexible with myself and my expectations and to focus on my family for the time being. As the events grew near and we met with family again, it became clear it would be a difficult and emotionally draining weekend.

It was also, however, a time of rejoicing. The service was beautiful, as people shared stories and memories of how my Father-in-Law had influenced them and made their lives better. I held my children and cried with them as they saw their Daddy speak about his Dad and break down in tears. They had never seen him like that. And Yet-we sang Great is Thy Faithfulness and we clung to the hope that we will be reunited with him when our time has come. The time with family we don’t see often and the stories we shared, hugs we shared, and support we gave one another were nourishing to my soul. I woke up on Saturday morning knowing that I would run on Sunday.

I retrieved two spent shells from shots fired in his honor at the military funeral to give to my children as a way to remember their Papa. I asked my daughter if I could borrow hers to keep with me while I ran. I also wore my Run 4 Troops jersey for the race, as it had been the last marathon I ran while my Father-in-Law was alive and I had dedicated the race to him. I went into the race knowing that it wasn’t my “A” race and I was going to treat it as a training run, simply allowing myself to use the cathartic and healing nature of running to my advantage.

The race was one of the most difficult races I’ve run in a long time. Not because it was a difficult course or I was running a grueling pace, but because it was a poorly organized, small, quiet race. The timing mats were laid out only minutes before the start,  the course map was hand drawn and not to scale, the course was not always well-marked, and the volunteers were sparse. Spectators were almost non-existent. Furthermore, my emotions were raw and my body was tired. Worst of all, the day grew more hot and humid as the miles ticked by, with the temperature reaching the mid-80s by the end. Thankfully, I knew from my previous races that I needed electrolytes. I had Clif Bloks, Salt Stick chews, and Hammer Endurolyte pills with me in my fuel belt. I used all of them during the race, with the exception of one salt tab, which I gave to a fellow runner who was struggling with cramps in the final two miles.

Still, I prayed to God and thanked him for time with family and the gift he gave me in bringing me into a family that, while I was not born into it, accepted me and loved me as their own. I prayed for my husband, who lost his father, for his siblings, for my Mother-in-Law. She lost her husband of 53 years. I prayed words of anger at the monster that is cancer, taking both a dear friend and my Father-in-Law in the span of 8 months. I thought about the strength my Father-in-Law showed in the several hours before he passed, his heart beating far longer than the Nurses expected or believed could happen. I though of  my Coach, who has run multiple 100 mile races….IN THE MOUNTAINS. I drew from the strength of these people (and others) as I finished. And when I was done, I hobbled as quickly as I could to the shore of Lake Michigan and I waded in to feel the cold water on my aching legs. It felt heavenly.

As I think back to that moment, I think it symbolizes the grieving process. When it first hits us, it’s as though we’re looking at a vast expanse of deep, dark waters. Waves that seem too big to survive, as though they will engulf us. But soon, we move closer and we accept its strength and its enduring presence. We know we can walk slowly, dipping our toes in first, then walking in slowly. Eventually, we can swim, knowing the waves will not overtake us. Others are nearby, offering help when we need it. We get stronger and we learn to know when to expect the next wave and how to ride it until it subsides. We pray and we remember. We remember that where there is great mourning, there was great love. And love is a gift that can never be taken from us, a gift that will never be forgotten.