A Marathon and a Suit: Lessons in Committment |

Sometimes it’s hard to commit. It’s especially hard to commit to something when the outcome is questionable and the end goal is far off.

The Race

Take a marathon, for example. 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 keeps the end goal a mere dream.

But I decided to train for the 26.2 miles. To say I was nervous is a huge understatement. When I scrolled down my training schedule and saw 20 miles….22 miles….I completely second guessed my ability to make such a commitment.

I rallied. I imagined myself conquering the concrete; I imagined wanting more at mile twenty four, and I pictured doing it all with grace and poise.

That was not my reality. Ten miles was my first big milestone, and I physically wore every inch of the pain that I felt during that run. And even if I wanted to pretend that I did it with grace and poise, my kid’s reaction shook me quickly back to my reality: “Mom, you look really bad.”

But, I was committed. I stuck to the training schedule thanks to two running friends, 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.

The day before the race was exhilarating. The Expo was filled with runners, free giveaways, and a lot of excitement, and my kids were there for all of it.

It was great. I was happy and eager until I struck up a conversation with someone at one of the booths. He was describing the route of the half-marathon to the several runners standing around him. 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 explained that it was my first marathon and then told him my hopeful finish time. My kid offered her bit: “And my mom looks really bad after she runs.” So that was helpful information.

“Well, this is one of the hardest marathon’s for a first timer. But you’ll probably make it.”

I almost threw in the towel right then and there. Probably? What’s the death rate again for marathon runners?

But I was committed.

So, at 4:00 a.m. the next morning I began the process of obsessing over how much or how little to eat, how much or how little to wear, but when the gun sounded at 7:00 am, none of that mattered. I was off.

I hit a wall around mile seventeen. Thankfully my other running buddy came to the rescue and provided bagels, advil, and fresh legs ready to carry us through the last ten miles.

She kept us going and all was well in my running world until the last 1/4 of a mile. When I could see the finish line, when the end of the race was literally right in front of me, I had a panic attack.

Why, you ask? I have no idea, but I know my friend was asking the same question as she told me to “breathe in; breathe out,” and then kindly added: You’re so close! Let’s go.

With my arm around her shoulder, I finished the race I committed to running. 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.

The Suit

I’ve learned recently that my son has the same commitment gene to challenges that I do. Two nights before Easter, exactly one year ago, 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.

The night before Easter Sunday, I found him a Walmart suit. There was no consideration as to whether he would actually like the suit, but I figured one day of wearing it wouldn’t be a big deal.

It was a big deal.

He hated it. I mean, he really hated it. But he was going to wear the Easter Sunday suit.

Instead of happy, Easter smiles, all we heard from my son was how itchy, scratchy, hot, cold, uncomfortable, and ugly the suit was. I tried to remind him that the day was not about his suit but about Jesus’ resurrection. But the suit itched. And the suit was hot. Or cold. Or whatever he decided it was.

After the services, the complaining continued. And it just so happened to continue in front of a fellow congregant. This man 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 from this older congregant: Wear the suit every Sunday for an entire year and I’ll give you a reward at the end.

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. In every holiday picture this last year, Jrod is wearing the lime-green suit. There was no escaping it. My son was committed.

My husband and I even to get rid of it. There were times when I was the gentleman at the Expo, trying to put some doubt into my son’s commitment. When the sleeves shrunk and the pants began riding up his legs, I suggested that six months was good enough. But he pressed on in the lime-green suit, committed to his goal.

He did 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, my grandmother came to the rescue with her needle and thread and took the hem down. Still short, they could at least pass for pants, thanks to Grandma B.

My son was getting to get to that finish line.

As a pastor’s kid, the lime-suit became a bit of a challenge for us as ministry leader. I felt an urge to make the challenge known when we received a random bag of nice boys clothes anonymously left in my husband’s office. And every-once-in-a-while someone would stop me in the hallway and say, “Boy, Jrod sure likes that suit.”

But I never felt the urge more than when someone mailed us a Sunday outfit marked, “For Jrod for Christmas.” We weren’t the only ones sick of the lime green.

The end has come, and sense excitement from my son as he nears that finish line.

He had his own panic, however. In his last “1/4 of a mile” until the one-year mark, he started saying things like, “What else is there to even wear?”

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. When you cross that finish line, you’ll be thrilled in spite of a year of being uncomfortable, perhaps unfashionable, and maybe even a little smelly since I skipped 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.