One Foot In Front Of The Other
Eleven years ago I participated in my first Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. The charity walk took place over two full days. On day one, the course was 26.2 miles (a marathon). On day two, the course was 13.1 miles (a half-marathon). Each walker was required to raise a minimum of $1800 to even participate. The training schedule started months in advance. It was a major commitment. I completed all 26.2 miles on the first day, but I was so emotionally and physically spent that I couldn’t continue on the second day. A year later I set my mind to do better, and I completed 34 miles in total. I’d like to tell you that someday I’ll give it one more go and finish all 39 miles, but I made my husband promise to prevent me from doing exactly that, no matter how much I say I want to. It’s been a long time, but I’m sure it had something to do with the fact that I was so sore I had to sleep on the couch my first night home, to avoid the Mt. Everest of a staircase leading to our bedroom. I also have a faint memory of sobbing uncontrollably as I attempted to so much as shift my legs in the passenger seat on our 2-hour drive home from the finish line. My husband had to lift me out of the car and bring me inside. The Avon Walks were by far the most physically grueling things I’ve ever been through. I can say this honestly because I’ve never experienced pregnancy, labor, or delivery (adoption for the win).
Various walks take place in cities all around the country, but I was in the closest proximity to San Francisco, (you know, the city of never-ending HILLS), a regretful choice in hindsight. None of my training walks prepared me for the rolling sidewalks of California’s Golden City. I remember crossing over the Golden Gate Bridge, my face getting beaten by the wind whipping across the heavy metal beams. The skin on my cheeks burned. My legs began to ache. I was only around mile 9. As I headed down into the breathtaking seaside town of Sausalito, I rounded the corner and saw my mom. She was holding a homemade poster board with my name in bright pink letters. I could hear her voice, cheering me on. I had no idea she was going to be there. Her hugs and high fives and “I’m so proud of you’s” were just what I needed to fill my slowly emptying tank. All along the course, there were pockets of cheering sections- many were friends and family of fellow walkers, but some were total strangers, just there to show their support for those of us brave enough to take on the steep hills of their city. But the ones that got me, were the survivors. These were the women and men who couldn’t join the group of walkers because they were in the midst of their battle with breast cancer. Instead, they chose to serve us, encourage us, and inspire us. They drove by in decorated vans, blaring music and shouting encouragement over their megaphones. They handed out snacks and water at rest stations. They positioned their wheelchairs at the top of the hills to greet us with a smile when we reached the summit. They whipped the bandannas off their bald, chemo-ridden scalps, and waved them in the air like flags to show us their support and appreciation. Their faces suddenly made the blisters on my heels, the windburn on my face, and the aches in my muscles, seem minuscule.
Much later in the day, when I was crossing back over the Golden Gate Bridge, around mile 25, the pain in my lower back was almost more than I could bear. I choked back tears and tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. A fellow walker, a woman at least 20 years my senior, came alongside me and started rubbing my back as we walked. I marveled at both her energy and generosity. She assured me I was almost there. The finish line was less than two miles ahead. When I came to the final half-mile, the finish line in my sights, my husband sidled up to me and took my hand. I was going to make it. As I crossed under the bright pink inflatable arch, I let the tears fall. I collapsed on the grass, listening to the bells, drums, bullhorns, and applause of so many volunteers, friends, family, and fellow walkers.
I don’t know about you, but for the last five months, this season of the pandemic has been my metaphorical Avon Walk. Every time I reach the bottom of a hill, I’m faced with an even steeper one. I keep getting hit with bad news, disappointment, and another change of plans. And that finish line? It keeps moving further away. Like a mirage in the desert, it promises relief and rest, but whenever I think I’m close, it disappears again. Every day is nothing short of exhausting. Like most of us, I have a long list of frustrations and let-downs. I’ve diagnosed myself with mild depression. My husband and I have coined a new phrase just for 2020: “Nothing matters anymore.” It works for literally any situation. It’s funny, but not really. Most days it’s legitimately how we feel. Oh how I wish, like with the Avon Walk, I could quit early, go home and succumb to the healing powers of ibuprofen and a bubble bath to make the pain go away. While I may not be able to cope with this difficult season in that same tangible way, I can look to the faces of those around me that remind me to keep going.
On my kitchen wall, I have a metal cardholder. We bring it out for the holidays to display Christmas cards we receive in the mail, or birthday cards during our respective birthday months. A few weeks into quarantine, I brought it out again, this time to display all the notes of encouragement I was receiving from friends and mentors in my amazing tribe. Notes of rally and support as I tackled my first ever homeschool experience. Notes of encouragement as I entered month three of having both my kids and my husband home full-time. Notes of gratitude for ways I’d been a voice of love and truth to someone else. Last month it got so full I had to clear it off to make room for more. I’ve lost count of the number of surprise gifts and goodies we’ve found on our doorstep over the last five months. Just this week alone, dear friends had ice cream delivered to us when they heard our air conditioning unit quit working. Another friend greeted me with flowers when she showed up for a girl’s night. And another friend not only loaned us a fan during our ac crisis but included a Starbucks gift card with it. Our church connection group meets every Friday night over video chat, and this week our friends turned my tears of struggle into tears of laughter within minutes. Several other moms from my kids’ school have an ongoing Facebook thread in which we can share our struggles, frustrations, and moments of weakness, knowing we will be supported, heard, and rallied around. This group includes many working moms who are battling significantly more than I am, trying to balance their careers, homes, and multiple children now attending school from home. I’m daily humbled and reminded how blessed I am to be able to devote my full attention to my kids during this season, hard as it is. Regardless, I know I’m not alone in my struggle to stay positive, and put one foot in front of the other.
Have you ever crawled to the finished line, blinking back tears and numb with pain? We’ve all been there in some season of life, either physically or metaphorically. What spurred you to keep going? Who inspired you, comforted you, encouraged you? What humbled you when you needed a good dose of perspective? In my worst moments, God gently reminds me of the cheering section He’s so lovingly placed at every corner, just for me.
Maybe you’re like me, weary and blurry-eyed, pushing through your pain. You’re not alone. I promise you’re not. Look to your left and your right. You’ll see fellow walkers all around you. I urge you to show up for them too. Rub the back of someone who is dragging their feet across the bridge. Even if you’re in the midst of your own hard-fought battle, position yourself at the top of the hill with a smile for those who are huffing and puffing their way up behind you. They’ll be so grateful you did.
The beautiful thing about this journey is, that we don’t need to cross the finish line to experience rest and relief. Jesus tells us we can have that right now, whenever we need it. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light,” Matthew 11: 28-30. I’m so encouraged by this verse. I read it and I can close my eyes and go back to the feel of the grass when I crumbled at mile 26.2, the place where all my burdens fell to the ground and I found true rest. I can hear the sounds of the applause, bells, and bullhorns, and I can know that tomorrow they’ll still be there, ready to keep me going.