Writing Warmup: Nearly There
Written on 4/10/25 as a personal exercise. If it means not a thing to another, so be it, and praise the Lord anyway that he would give me something to comfort my heart alone.
If faith is something I can grow stronger in, would that make it a muscle? I think so, in a way, though I try to avoid the question, simply because I don’t exercise it as I should. I feel weak at times— inadequate— and I’d almost rather sit the sideline than embarrass myself. How selfish. I’m on the team, pretending I’d rather not be. Am I worried I’ll strain such a thing? I shouldn’t. It would mean I’m trying— striving— and that is good. It will be anyway… if I listen to the coach. There’s no use being on the team and working against each other. It would be right to be pulled out, though that never happens; you keep me in even when I drag my feet.
‘Keep your eye on me. Keep running. It’s not that you can’t slow down, just don’t turn around. Keep your head up. It gets quite confusing looking down at everyone’s shoes; they look deceptively similar to mine, but you’re not meant to follow the others. Keep your eye on me. Keep running. It’s not that you can’t slow down, just don’t turn around.’
And with that, my head is on straight once more, and I pick up the pace. The muscle is sore, and I worry I’ll strain it, but it’s something to strive for, and you wouldn’t ask me to run a race I wasn’t prepared for. You’re there anyway, alongside me, and anything I don’t know, you’ll tell me. I have to listen closely for it because your voice is gentle and low, and my breathing is growing ragged again as the blood thunders in my ears. ‘I must be growing stronger,’ I think, ‘surely this pain is not for nothing.’ And I look beside me, to your face, light and luminous, even if I can’t distinguish your features, and then to your hands. I’m reminded then that this pain is not for nothing. It’s everything. You’re everything. The fatigue fades a bit, and my lungs fill a little easier. I can hear your voice better. ‘Keep your eye on me. Keep running. It’s not that you can’t slow down, just don’t turn around.’
‘Nearly there,’ you say, although I know that means something different to you than it does to me. ‘Dad’s waiting at the finish line,’ you add, and my step falters. I worry what he’ll think, because I should be making better time, and my muscles should be stronger, and… and I know better, and that’s not the point, is it? The point is finishing and finishing well. ‘Well done.’ I’ve heard that’s what he tells the others, and I’d like to hear it too, once the thundering in my ears calms and my breathing evens out at the end of it all, when I know the pain was not for nothing. I’ve come too far now, and while I can’t say that I won’t slow down, I will not turn around. My eyes would fall, and I’d lose your shoes amongst the others. I’m not meant to follow them.
You’re beside me, keeping the pace. ‘Endurance,’ you said at the beginning, and I winced, thinking I’m far better suited for sprints. ‘But you won’t get very far with that,’ you remind me, gentle and low. You’re right— kind too, with the way you ease up when you know I need it, though you always pick up the pace again before I think I’m ready. The blood thunders, but I know it will end— nearly there— and what a sweet sound it will be then. ‘Well done.’
