More Precious and Rare than any Run

[Excerpted from Laughter Near the Edge of Heaven, subsequently published by Flying Ketchup Press in their Sprouts collection.]

I had run the day before yesterday, and it had been a good trails and hills workout.  For most of my run I had danced along with some serious, driving, Christian rock music that had seemed to mirror a wild, crazy streak in my running heart that morning.  The sun was rich and pulsating, and I had wanted to cry out like the old song, “You can have all this world, but give me Jesus….”   The trails and the day had been gorgeous.  And now I wanted another rocking good time with God, dashing through the woods, just as a few days ago.  Now it was Sunday afternoon and I had conceived how to slip a run into the remaining day.  I was hungry for some trails. 

For a few days now, I had been saying to my younger son, “Hey, let’s go for a walk and I’ll show you the woods I’ve been running.  You can bring your camera and take some cool shots.  It’ll be great!”  The usual response was something like, “Yeah, maybe….”  So, anyway, I was setting up for my run, changing clothes, filling my hydration pack, grabbing my watch, and then…. “Dad, let’s go for that walk.”  What did he say?  My thoughts bounced between the run and the walk.  My hesitation was no more than a blink of the eye.  Of course, the walk; it held far more worth and promise than just another run in my life.  Runs are great, but there are things more precious and rare than any run will ever be.  This was a special, rare gift to me on a quiet Sunday afternoon.  I redrew my ideas for the afternoon, and a short time later we were out in the forest and on the trails enjoying the natural beauty, the trails, and the countless other things to catch the eye and captivate the mind and imagination in a bustling woodland in springtime.  We wandered along. I showed him the west ridge trail and east ridge path, the twisting, climbing pathways, drop-offs and quick descents, and the views for the highest points in Birch Island Park.  We practiced careening down a loose sand and gravel slope and walked on the railroad tracks because they were there.  Sure, we were careful to listen for trains, and we heard bees and squirrels.  And we saw the sun, brilliant through the trees, and reflecting full-glorious on the shimmering water of a little marshy lake.  And I think our hearts heard things other than words, things shared and enjoyed together, good memories of a quiet Sunday afternoon and a walk in the woods with my youngest.

Henry

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