Life is not easy. It has taken awhile for me to accept this fact. Some days I still don’t. For me, the only thing that makes it palatable is that God did not exempt himself from the weary struggle. And the story doesn’t end in struggle, does it.
This moment is hard.
This place in time, in this cosmos,
With all it’s disconcerting magnitude.
In this body, in this my solitary race,
Designed before I began,
I crumple in the middle of the dusty course,
Sides heaving, lungs screaming,
Not for the heat really,
Not due to unreasonable terrain,
But because I tire of the very notion of running.
Sometimes the difficulty of this course stuns, Father God.
The trials of this trail hurt more than I expected.
They come too close together.
And in so doing illuminate pain all round,
Not just my own.
I see others limping.
Yes, a few stride on smiling faintly,
Others, youthful, laugh and sing as they pass.
But some bend,
Hands on knees,
Some leave the race altogether:
Bruised, bloody, crippled.
Some, like me, won’t leave the course,
but exchange baffled looks and an encouraging word.
And as I sit in the dust,
Weary of this race set before me,
I wonder why He allows such suffering on the trail.
I wonder how He plans to judge the race,
Judge the racers.
Be merciful Lord.
I am but dust.
I am frail and tire easily.
My children are frail,
And their course seems even steeper than mine.
You know we can’t see the finish line,
Nor the refreshment to follow.
We simply believe.
I will run this race
Because I see no other.
I will run this race because You, Creator God,
You ran it too.