Colloquial Soliloquy

It was just an ordi­nary evening. Emma was in bed for the night and I just sat down to rest when I got the news. Bryan had been hurt in train­ing. I didn’t know the details out­side of know­ing that he was in surgery. I found myself at that moment stand­ing and look­ing at a fin­ish line. The fin­ish line was so close and tan­gi­ble, but it was one that we would never cross.

The course that led us to the fin­ish line was long. It was hard. All who had tread that course with us dreamt of cross­ing the fin­ish line. Some started and had to stop so quickly that the fin­ish line was only a dis­tant dream — a dis­tant dream that is very painful to lose nonethe­less. Some were forced to stop right in front of the fin­ish line. It felt cruel. Maybe this could be con­sid­ered a “Moses moment” for us. We were gaz­ing at the “promised land” but we were not per­mit­ted to enter.

The notion of the uncrossed fin­ish line was embed­ded in my heart and mind when I dis­cussed the injury with Bryan while he was in the hos­pi­tal. He ran a 4-mile race the morn­ing of his stress frac­ture. He ran it in spite of the fact that he was hurt­ing in that hip.

My hus­band does not allow pain to stand in the way of doing what he should do.

He ran and was just a few meters from the fin­ish line when he heard the tell-tale “pop” sound that sent him tum­bling to the ground unable to even sit up, yet alone walk. At that moment — that sin­gle moment in time, my hus­band had just missed two fin­ish lines that were right within his grasp. He missed the fin­ish line for the run, and he had missed the fin­ish line for grad­u­at­ing with his class. He told me he had visions in his head of the fin­ish line for the run, and how incred­i­ble the sym­bol­ism of that piv­otal moment has become for him. He knew right then and there that the other fin­ish line would not be crossed within the orig­i­nal time frame — and later we learned it would not be crossed at all.

We watched our new found friends, com­rades, sis­ters and broth­ers leave us behind, and we stood on the oppo­site side of the fin­ish line and cheered them on. When you stand on that side of the fin­ish line your job is to encour­age and sup­port. The time may come later when you are the one who is allowed to fin­ish the race, but for now you have taken a new position.

This can be a very seri­ous test of your char­ac­ter — can you let go of the hopes you placed within your own plans quickly and suf­fi­ciently enough in order to exhort, and not dis­cour­age those with whom you were once run­ning? They are still your com­rades and you still have a respon­si­bil­ity to them. An injury does not release you of the bonds that have been made through many weeks of intense train­ing and close liv­ing quarters.

Bryan joy­fully took this posi­tion on the side­lines where he was placed and cel­e­brated the vic­to­ries of his fel­low Can­di­dates as they ran and crossed that fin­ish line. I heard no envy or bit­ter­ness in his voice as he told me how incred­i­bly proud he was of the men in his Pla­toon, and how he couldn’t wait to hear of their graduation.

See, my hus­band does not allow pain to stand in the way of doing what he should do.

We didn’t know where we were going, or what deci­sions would be made con­cern­ing his future. We could only wait. Wait and trust. You would think it would be a tor­tur­ous place to reside. It wasn’t fun, but it was a very good reminder that we can only lay plans in place and do our very best. That is all. We can not pre­dict what the next moment in our life will be like.

We can not arro­gantly say that things are within our grasp and noth­ing can con­found our will. There is a ben­e­fit to hav­ing a will that is very strong, as long as it is embod­ied with a hum­ble and con­trite spirit. Our hope is not in our own might, but it is in the Lord Jesus Christ and Him alone. With Him our hope is safely kept!

So, what do you do with an elu­sive fin­ish line? What do you do when you can lit­er­ally see it, touch it, and know that it is inches from your face — but you can’t cross it? It’s sim­ple. You look at the fin­ish line as a new start­ing point. Instead of see­ing the unmet mark as a point of fail­ure, you see it as a new chal­lenge and an oppor­tu­nity to grow. You put your foot on the new start­ing place and you begin to run again.

In real­ity all fin­ish lines are really elu­sive. We never fin­ish run­ning the race, we never fin­ish learn­ing, and we never fin­ish sup­port­ing one another. We never fin­ish lov­ing each other! Every goal that is reached is sim­ply the next step to a new set of goals. I know my hus­band and I have many more fin­ish lines and start­ing points to con­quer and embrace in this life, and in the strength of our faith­ful Sav­ior, Jesus, we will run with endurance.