I ran out the door with Harry yesterday morning into a sprinkle. Revved up with coffee and Colossians, we went for it, thinking it would lessen or stop soon, like it has before. Not that way.
10 minutes into the run, as we came down the hill past the sleepy peacock on the chimney, I had to admit it wasn't sprinkling anymore. In fact, it was turning from steady rain to downpour.
"We're wet anyway," I said, as we sloshed toward the decision point, where we could either turn home, cutting the route to 2.5, or keep going for the planned 5-miler. "I'm going for it," I said. "We're not even sweating, we're so wet."
Harry agreed on the wet part, but wasn't interested in the rest of the miles, so I squished happily on. I needed that time of prayer, of joy in the "I get to," not the "I have to."
Having had some friends diagnosed with some pretty grim futures lately, at least in medical terms, I've been really appreciating the gift of running. I'm so grateful. I get up every morning, glad for my husband and longing for coffee. H and I meet for God's word and cups of black strength, and then tie our shoes and head for the hills, literally. How kind of our mighty God. I know it won't always be like this, so for now, I'll slosh on, grateful for the miles, the coffee, the husband, and the rain of His mercies, new every morning.
Thank you, Mighty King.
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