The Race

Last weekend my son Hank and his sweet wife Corrie ran a half marathon in Knoxville with four of

their good friends.

They had trained for months for that race.

Not because they thought they were going to win it.

They knew better than that.

Their goal was simple: finish.

For them, finishing was the reward.

And I love this part—they also decided they were going to run it together. Even though a couple of

them probably could have picked up the pace and gone on ahead, they didn’t. They stayed together.

Yesterday at lunch, Hank was telling me all about it, and I loved hearing every bit of it. He was excited

to tell the story, and I was excited to listen.

He talked about the crowd gathering for the race.

He talked about the volunteers lining the course, making sure runners had what they needed—water,

sports drinks, and even doughnuts.

Yes, doughnuts.

And yes, Hank had a chocolate doughnut.

That sounds exactly like something his dad would do.

At the beginning, everything felt pretty good. They were talking, laughing, enjoying being together,

and finally doing the thing they had spent months preparing for. It wasn’t practice anymore. It was

race day.

But around mile 6, something changed.

The conversation started to fade.

They weren’t laughing as much.

Now they were focused.

Focused on breathing.

Focused on the pace.

Focused on the fact that they were almost halfway there.

Then came the pain.

Hank said his feet started hurting. His legs started talking back. The race got real in a hurry.

Still, they kept going.

All six of them kept pressing on.

They were passed by some runners.

They passed others.

Some people had already stopped.

Others looked like they were about to.

But they kept going, even when it got hard.

Even when it would have been easier to slow down, step off the course, and call it a day.

And then, just before the 13-mile mark, they realized something was wrong.

They still couldn’t see the finish line.

There weren’t many people around.

Just a few scattered voices cheering them on.

Then came the news: the race organizers had misjudged one of the turns.

They had set it up wrong.

So the 13.1-mile half marathon turned into a 13.6-mile race.

Can you imagine that?

You’ve trained for months.

You’ve pushed through the pain.

You’ve endured the hard part.

You’re ready to finish.

You’re ready to throw your hands up in victory.

And then you find out:

Not yet.

A little farther.

The journey isn’t over.

Hank told me he might have slowed way down—or maybe even walked more—if not for the friends

around him. But now they weren’t just running together.

Now they were encouraging each other.

Helping each other push on.

Helping each other finish.

Helping each other do what they had set out to do.

And I couldn’t help but think, that sounds a lot like life.

A lot of us don’t mind the start.

The beginning is exciting.

There’s energy.

There’s vision.

There’s hope.

And even the middle part, while hard, still feels manageable because we tell ourselves, I know where

the finish line is.

But then life does something frustrating.

It stretches the race.

You thought healing would come by now.

You thought the prayer would be answered by now.

You thought things would be different by now.

You get to what feels like mile 13… and instead of a finish line, you get another half mile.

And your first thought is usually the same as mine would be:

What do you mean you misconfigured the race?

You had one job.

But maybe that’s where we need to stop and remember something important:

God has never once misconfigured the course.

What feels wrong to us is never outside His hand.

What feels late to us is never late to Him.

What feels like an unexpected extension may actually be part of the plan that shapes us, strengthens

us, and teaches us to depend on Him—and on the people He’s put around us.

That’s why Scripture talks about life this way.

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” (2 Timothy 4:7)

“Run in such a way that you may obtain it.” (1 Corinthians 9:24–27)

“I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.”

(Philippians 3:14)

That’s not the language of comfort.

That’s the language of endurance.

We want the Christian life to be a straight line to the finish.

God often makes it a deeper journey than we expected.

And one of His greatest gifts along the way is the people who run beside us.

The ones who won’t leave us behind.

The ones who could go ahead but choose not to.

The ones who encourage us when our feet hurt, our legs ache, and our spirits dip.

We were never meant to run this race alone.

Sometimes endurance doesn’t look like strength.

Sometimes it just looks like not quitting.

Just keep going.

Just trust God.

Just take the next step.

Jesus is enough!

Even when the course feels longer than you were told.

That extra half mile probably felt brutal.

But there they were—six friends, still moving forward, still together, holding hands high, still finishing.

Some of you feel like you’re running in circles.

Some of you are tired and want to quit.

And some of you already have—you’ve stepped off the course.

I’ve stepped off the course, and I’ve stepped back on.

Some of you feel like you’re running this race alone, you’re not. Jesus hasn’t left you. He’s right there

with you.

Get back in the race.