Lois Flowers

I used to run on the treadmill four times a week.

I was pretty proud of myself for it too, although I’d be the first to admit that I was mostly motivated by my desire for endorphins and my love of dessert.

Running on the treadmill has its physical and mental health benefits, for sure. But my daughter who loves to run had long encouraged me to take my workout outside.

“The treadmill is doing a lot of the work,” she’d tell me. “The trail doesn’t move under you; you have to propel yourself forward.”

I resisted for a long time. I’ve never enjoyed running outside. I like to read on the treadmill. Mostly, it just sounded too hard.

But when the quarantine started, I took Lilly up on her offer to become my outdoor running coach. Beginning in March and continuing through mid August when she left for college, we hit the trail by our house—once a week at first, then twice.

Right away, I learned an ego-deflating lesson.

I wasn’t nearly as in shape as I thought, and I had depended on the treadmill far more than I realized.

My dependence showed up in my posture on the trail. I was used to looking down to read books, but running on the trail while looking down is not a good running stance.

Imagine jogging that looks more like a slouchy trudge. It’s as exhausting as it sounds.

I couldn’t see this for myself, but Lilly noticed it early on and pointed it out frequently

“Look up, Mom,” she’d call over or back to me. “Keep your head up!”

I did my best to obey her instructions, despite angry protestations from my lower back. Apparently, running upright uses muscles I didn’t even know I had.

It’s hard to look up, isn’t it?

On the trail by the creek, and especially in life.

When we’re weary, discouraged, disillusioned, depressed. When we’re in a season of grief, of pain, of exhaustion, of waiting, of lament, of wondering what comes next.

It literally takes physical effort to look up. To tear our eyes off our digital distractions.  Not to revert to our status quos, our go-to responses, our built-in defense mechanisms. Not to be governed by pride or selfishness or insecurity.

It’s hard, for sure.

It is possible, though, and Psalm 121 shows us how.

“I will lift up my eyes to the hills—from whence comes my help? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” (Psalm 121:1-2, NKJV)

If there’s anything my running lessons have taught me, it’s that I have to make myself look up. Beyond the hills. Beyond the problems. Beyond my shortcomings and weaknesses.

Despite my misgivings, if I lift up my eyes to Jesus, the author and finisher of my faith, I can run with endurance the race that is set before me. (Hebrews 12:1-2)

And so can you.

We can only think about one thing at a time, right? So when we catch ourselves running down those familiar-but-unhelpful rabbit holes again, let’s do something different.

Let’s lift up our eyes to the Maker of the hills. Let’s cast our cares on Him instead of trying to carry them all ourselves. He’s ready and waiting to fill us with what we need, with every good thing, with life and hope and peace.

Months into our runs, Lilly wasn’t telling me to look up anymore. Instead, I heard things like, “You look like a real runner now, Mom.”

Looks are deceiving, of course. Most days I still felt like I was going to pass out before we got home, especially when I didn’t sleep well the night before.

But I kept going.

I’m still going, in fact—plodding along the trail at least one morning a week.

Lilly’s not here to push me, so I’m going more slowly than before. But I’m still looking up.

And you know what? Now it actually takes more effort to run when I’m looking down.

Funny how that works, huh?

♥ Lois

P.S. I’m linking up this week with Purposeful Faith, #TellHisStory, InstaEncouragements, Recharge Wednesday, #HeartEncouragement, Let’s Have Coffee and Grace & Truth.

Photos by Molly Flowers