“It leaves you feeling hollow inside,” he said.
He understands.
The conversation occurred a few days ago as a friend and I discussed the frustration of injuries, especially those that come after a long period of training for a specific event, such as a marathon.
He could empathize with my recent knee problem, not just because he’s a competitor, but also because he knows something about me. After going through the day’s mail, that’s more than I can say for others.
On top of the stack is a letter from a couple my family used to worship with. They moved, and we left the church. We’ve seen the pair twice in eight years, bumping into them at Terre Haute prior to Ride Across INdiana. While it’s always good to briefly catch up on each other’s lives, an obvious disconnect exists, as evidenced by awkward pauses in the conversations, until someone finally bids goodbye.
Asking for prayer and financial support, their letter provides details of a planned missionary trip to Spain. While I don’t fault them for seeking partners for the endeavor, I’m left a bit bewildered that it comes from people who are practically strangers in my life. They no longer know me, or they wouldn’t ask for my help. The irony isn’t that I am unable to financially support their ministry, but that I no longer feel God hears or cares about what I have to say.
Last night I dreamed my father asked me to say grace before a family meal. When I refused, we all sat at the table, heads bowed — no one speaking, nothing happening.
That dream effectively sums up my spiritual life. Anyone who has taken the time to listen to me talk about “my journey” since I left the Church of God would know that. And yet, no one I went to church with, no one I praised with, no one I prayed with, no one who calls himself a Christian and claims to be following Jesus, has taken the time to find out what has happened in my life in recent years.
As such, they don’t understand.
They don’t know what it’s like to be hollow inside after a lengthy period of training, left standing while others run the race. Physically. Spiritually.
I run alone today on the singletrack of Westwood. In the morning chill and over rain-soaked leaves, I enjoy the solitude. This is now my sanctuary, and my problematic knee feels the best it has in five and a half weeks. There’s healing in these woods, even if it comes in small stages. Physically, if not spiritually.
Trail run: 10 miles — Westwood Park
