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My Father and I
went for a run
to find out why I'm alive.
There's no doubt,
that the son was shinning
blinding bright
in the frigid
February sky.
I choked
and gasped
and spit
and cried
and stared
as we thundered along.
Between the music flooding
my ears from the head phones
and the thoughts
engulfing my mind from him
an ocean of momentum was being created.
We always start off,
me, often in hot anger, disappointment, grief, or anxiety,
on the
same route
but we always end up coming home a different way.
Our journeys always begin in the country,
the dirt roads,
the barns,
the fields,
the trees,
the wind,
and go where He wills from there.
In town.
Farther out of town.
Where ever he tells me to go.
When my Father and I run together
I listen
I concentrate
I fix my eyes
on Him.
getting the mail,
always see me
but I never see them.
My attention is focused beyond them.
Some one said flippantly once
"You look so scared! What are you running from?!"
He thought it was funny.
I thought it was stupid.
I thought it was annoying.
I thought it was offensive.
And every time I've run since then,
I think about that stupid sentence,
"What are you running from?!"
And never thought much more about it.
But today, it made me think of something.
I'm running from a lot.
But I'm running to even more.
I'm running from homework.
I'm running from boys.
I'm running from cars.
I'm running from jobs.
I'm running from stress.
I'm running from infatuation.
I'm running from laziness.
I'm running from pain.
I'm running from heartache.
I'm running from my friends.
I'm running from my enemies.
I'm running from scholarships, and responsibilities, and disappointment, and family, and fear, and a messy room, and church, and cliques, and NHS, and DECA, and bullies, and fans, and publicity.
And I'm crying, and I'm aching, and I'm striding, and I'm reaching, and I'm kicking
for what I what I know is just over that hill
or just around that corner
or just past the stop sign
or just a few miles further away from town
or just a few miles closer to town
or somewhere in these streets and tracks and trails and paths.
I'm running to God.
Sometimes the anger is so hot,
the disappointment is so deep,
the grief is so gripping,
and the anxiety is so physically devouring,
that I have to cry
and ache
and stride
and reach
and kick
to God-
I'm running to God.
There, sir, is your answer.
Your question so flippant.
I say to you just as strongly.
Who cares what I'm running from,
I'm running to God!

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