Take a marathon, for example. Those of you who have attempted this feat (I'm told that is less than one percent of the population) know that there's nothing "for sure" when deciding to commit to this insane distance in running. The commitment to the weekly running routine is nothing short of arduous, and let's be honest, no one can promise you that six months later you'll actually cross that finish line. There are injuries and sickness to contend with, scheduling conflicts that make it impossible to get in that long run during the week, and from time to time the: "I've hit a wall and can't do it anymore" attitude that could keep the end goal of crossing that finish line a mere dream.
With all these possibilities in mind, I decided to commit to training for 26.2 miles about a year and a half ago. To say I was nervous is a huge understatement. When I scrolled down my training schedule and saw 20 miles....18 miles....I completely second guessed my ability to make such a commitment. Actually, I didn't second guess my ability to run when I saw the schedule. In all honesty when I saw the training regimen, I imagined myself conquering the concrete; I imagined wanting more at mile twenty four and I pictured doing it all with grace, poise, and lot's of muscle. In actuality, this is what I imagined:
After my first "long" run, I realized there's really no such thing as the above image. Give me a break. Ten miles was a huge milestone and I physically wore every inch of pain that I felt during the run. And even if I wanted to pretend the above were true, my kid's honest reaction every time I walked in the door from a long run shook me quickly back to my reality: "Ooh, mom, you're so sweaty!" Or the more common, "Mom, you look really bad." Or my all time favorite, "Mom, can you please not come near me."
But, I was committed. Very, very committed. I stuck to that schedule thanks to two runner friends (who, incidentally, probably looked a little more like the above picture). And even though there were some Saturday's when I thought my legs weren't going to go more than four miles, I always felt a sense of accomplishment when I hit the pavement and could check off another long run on my training schedule. No matter how painful or ugly the run....I was committed.
The Expo the day before the race pumped me up. I was even beginning to see my face on the girl in the picture. The excitement and momentum was a real boost, building anticipation for the longest run of my life.
This happy, mom's a rock star, I thought I could be a rock star, picture all happened before my conversation with one of workers at the Expo. I noticed the gentleman describing the route of the half-marathon to several runners standing around. They looked excited, he looked excited, and then he wished them all luck as they walked away. I stayed and asked him if he would show me the route for the full marathon: "You're doing the full?"
"Yep!" I told him it was my first marathon, shared with him a little about my running buddies and even told him my hopeful finish time. It was clearly more information than he was looking for and I'm sure I looked a little idiotic (maybe like my make-believe running girl picture).
"Well, this is one of the hardest marathon's for a first timer. But I'm sure you'll make it."
All happy--mom's a rock star--I can run like that girl in the picture--thoughts and hopes were officially dashed. He was sure I would make it? Way to go with the encouragement, Mr. Expo man. Geez.
But I was committed.
So, at 4:00 a.m. the next morning I began the process of eating the right food, and getting nervous about whether I ate too much or too little of the right food, putting on the right clothes, and getting nervous about whether I was wearing too much or too little, and getting to the start line with enough time to snap the photo to document that I did in fact make it to the starting line, even if I did not, in fact, look anything like the girl in the picture - even before the race began.
I hit a wall around mile seventeen. Thankfully my other running buddy came to the rescue and provided bagel bites, advil, and the much needed freshness in order to be able to talk us through the last ten miles. I had never been more interested in hearing about someone's weekend. I just needed her to keep talking. I was going to finish that blasted race. I was committed.
She kept us going and all was well in my running world until the last 1/4 of a mile. This is the point at which I had a panic attack. Why, you may ask, would I have a panic attack when I could physically see the finish line? I have no, earthly idea. I'm sure my running buddy was mentally asking the same question while at the same time telling me to "breathe in; breathe out."
But I was committed...and I finished that race. 26.2 miles of pure and painful running. And while I couldn't move my body for a good twenty-four hours, I wore a constant smile knowing what I had accomplished.
I've learned during this past year that my son has the same commitment gene to challenges as I do. Two nights before Easter last year, I began trying clothes on my son in the hopes that something would work for him to wear on Easter Sunday. Unless he was going to go to church with pants that would be safe in a flood, I realized he was going to need a new outfit.
So, the day before Easter I found him a suit. It was a quick decision, leaving little thought as to whether or not he (or anyone else in the family) would actually like the suit. I justified that he'd only be wearing it for one day, so if he didn't like it, he wouldn't have to wear it again.
He hated it. I mean, he really hated it. Being the night before Easter, I wasn't about to run out and get something the kid liked and return the bad decision another day. Unfortunately for my son, I'm not that mom. He was going to wear the suit.
Instead of happy, Easter smiles, all we heard from my son was how itchy, scratchy, hot, cold, uncomfortable, and ugly he was...no matter how many times we reiterated that the day was not about the suit, but about Jesus' resurrection. But the suit itched. And the suit was hot. Or cold. Or whatever he decided it was in the moment he decided it.
After the services, the complaining continued. And it just so happened to continue in front of our youth pastor and friend. He was one of the many whom Jrod cornered that morning in order to make known the dire situation that his mother had placed him in.
Before I could really process what was happening, there was a challenge extended to my son: Wear the suit every Sunday for an entire year and you'll get something.
He agreed. And my son was committed.
For an entire year, I have seen Jrod put on that lime green suit. I have slowly begun to hate the suit almost as much as my son did on Easter morning almost one year ago. In every holiday picture with my kids this last year, Jrod is wearing the suit: Mother's day, Father's Day, Christmas...the lime green suit is there. We couldn't escape it. My son was committed.
And we tried to get rid of it. There were times when I was the gentleman at the Expo, trying to convince my son once the sleeves shrunk and the pants began riding up his legs, to just give in. Six months was long enough, son! We tried to pat him on the back and say, "Yea for you! You made it so many months! NOW BE DONE."
He even hit a wall. Right around nine months the pants were becoming noticeably short. But, like my running friend who came to my rescue at mile seventeen, Granmda Buswell came to the rescue with her needle and thread and took that hem down. Yay, Grandma.
My son was committed to this challenge and he was going to get to that finish line.
There were times when I wanted my husband to explain from the pulpit why our son was wearing the same outfit during the course of the year. I felt a particular urge to make the challenge known when we'd receive a random bag of nice boys clothes left in my husband's office. Or when someone would stop me in the hallway and say, "Boy, Jrod sure likes his suit." But I never felt the urge more than when someone mailed us a nice Sunday outfit marked, "For Jrod for Christmas." We weren't the only ones sick of the lime green. And frankly, I was concerned that others wondered about our ability to actually purchase clothes for our son.
Much like my race day, my son has neared the end of his goal. And he has certainly stayed committed throughout. I even sense some excitement from him that in spite of wearing clothes that really don't fit anymore, he's made it. He has stayed committed and he's about to accomplish his goal. I totally get it, son.
Somewhat unfortunately, in this last "1/4 of a mile" until the finish line, I'm sensing a bit of panic from J-Rod. He's been saying things like, "What else is there to wear?" And, "Maybe I'll just keep wearing it because I really don't know what else I'd wear." Yes, he's having that same sense of panic that I did. Even with the finish line literally in sight.
Son, the end is near. You're almost there. And I very literally cannot wait. And I think there are about 200 other friends and family who share in my sentiment. And when you cross that finish line, you'll be thrilled in spite of being uncomfortable, perhaps unfashionable, and maybe even a little smelly throughout the year (although the smelly part is admittedly my fault for skipping one too many washes in fear that the suit would actually begin to shred).
You did it, Jrod. You committed. Maybe one day we'll run a marathon together.
