Seeing the Perfect in the Imperfect

Nothing about this race feels right, I think as I hug my knees and wrestle with the massive trash bag that is serving more as a sail than a blanket in the 30 mile per hour wind.  It’s November 2 and it’s my third NYC Marathon, but oddly, this one doesn’t feel familiar.  I feel like I don’t belong here – so insignificant and small down here on the cold, damp ground as a sea of athletes rises up above me.  I cannot explain why, but I already feel defeated.  I wanted this race – of all my 14 marathons – to be the best, the most memorable, the most meaningful.  I wanted today to be the perfect celebration of 25 weeks and 950 miles of hard work and dedication.  Perfect.

As I shrink closer into myself to generate body warmth, I get deeper into my own head but the gentle voices are nowhere to be found – drowned out by the voices determined to remind me of why I don’t matter and why none of this matters.  I squinch my eyes tightly in an attempt to blot out the thoughts and I rest my forehead on my knees.  I feel just a bit warmer, but I sense it has nothing to do with my huddling techniques.  I look up above the runners’ heads and see that the sun is urgently trying to push through the thick Staten Island cloud cover as if the rays have something to say.  “Good morning,” I say out loud in the same wondrous way I greet God on every early morning run.  “Thank you for reminding me that you are here.”  Perfect.

The perfect ‘good morning’ in the imperfect sky

Then, it felt like someone hit my brain’s hard reboot, and I see a different world.  I now see beyond myself.  Oh, thank God for His otherworldly greeting from the heavens to remind me of why I do this – why I run.  I run because it’s the only way I know how to put this hard, crazy, sad, incredible, joyous, confusing, beautiful life into perspective.  It’s the only time I really see the world in true, living color and can express my gratitude for being chosen to play even the tiniest role in it.  Out on the road, in the quiet of the morning and from the stillness of my heart, I can accept life as it is presented – wanting nothing more and nothing less than exactly what it is.  So now, sitting here in Athlete’s Village with all its confusion and its chaos and its discomfort, I realize this is all simply a microcosm for life – and what do I do when I cannot make sense of life?  I run.  Perfect.

The cannons rudely announce the start of the 2014 TCS NYC Marathon with ground-shaking booms that instantaneously transport me back to the horrific aftermath of the 2013 Boston Marathon bombings.  But within a few minutes, I’m immersed in the sounds and scenes of the race as I wrestle the gale-force winds on the iconic Verrazano Narrows Bridge, so I focus my energy and my thoughts on the real fighter here – a special 9-year-old girl named Rebekah.  You see, when I was accepted to run with the “Miles for Miracles” team to benefit Boston Children’s Hospital, I had no idea that I was about to fall in love.  Rebekah is my patient partner being treated at Boston Children’s Hospital – a little girl with a half-smile and tiny hands who stole my heart the minute I saw her face.  Hers is the face I see on every tempo run, during every speed workout, and on my long 20-milers.  Her bravery fuels mine because I know that that my struggles – my hardest days – are nothing compared to the ones she faces.  Perfect.

Fueling my strength

I’m now seven miles into the race and I still feel anxious – even with Rebekah’s strength fueling me. I’m still struggling to believe that any of this really matters as the wind shakes me like a ragdoll, the cold seizes my lungs, and the other competitors jostle, bump and push me out of the way.  Then, I see Edward up ahead.  I ‘met’ Edward Lychik through Twitter when he was seeking votes for the 2014 Runners World Cover Contest.  He is an Afghan war veteran who lost his leg at the hip and was told he would never run again. I was immediately fascinated with his faith.  What drives a young man of 23 to be so accepting of what most would see as a curse?  What beliefs cause him to strive to become an even stronger version of his former self?   What has gripped his heart and his mind so strongly that he sees himself as one who’s blessed not broken?  Perfect.

I run up next to Edward and breathlessly introduce myself, tell him I’m proud of him and that I know he will finish strong.  I’m pretty sure he has no idea who I am, but he politely says hello and asks me to find him at the finish.  I tell him I will and then I disappear back into the pack to hide from the wind.  As I maneuver through the crowded course, I remember what Edward wrote in his nomination and it makes me run just a bit faster.  He wrote, “I run to challenge the status quo. I run to ignite the hearts of those who are yet to discover their untapped potential.  Losing my leg isn’t a burden, it’s the greatest gift I have ever been given.” I don’t know anything about his faith, but clearly Edward believes in something bigger than himself – that he was chosen to show us all that what is wrong can be made right, that fear can be overcome, and that goodness will always prevail.  Perfect.

As I make the glorious right turn into Central Park for the final two miles, everything is a blur and I feel like I’m running through a sun-drenched fog.  Apparently, my eyes are as tired as the rest of my body.  My optometrist always jests that I have beautiful, yet very imperfect eyes.  This seems quite fitting actually.  You see, there’s nothing perfect about this life, but I guess that’s what makes it all seem so beautiful.  Rebekah has had a lifetime of chronic health issues and is fragile and frail, but to me, she’s the strongest, most fearless child I’ve ever set these imperfect eyes upon.  The doctors told Edward his broken body would never run another step.  But in Edward, I see a spirit that cannot be broken – a faith that proves that there is One who protected and prepared him for this imperfect life.  Perfect.

With virtually nothing left in me, I cross the finish line feeling acutely aware of everyone and everything around me.  I sigh and think, no, nothing about this race was perfect.  But, I guess I’m different than most.  I don’t see beauty in the perfect – the perfect painting, the perfect photograph, the perfect story, the perfect race.  I see beauty in the broken, the messed up, the ragamuffins.  And, I no longer fear my own imperfections or hide my messiness from the world.  In fact, I’m really okay with it because I now know that everything wrong with me is absolutely perfect to God and that’s because a perfect Jesus made the ultimate sacrifice on my imperfect behalf.  Perfect.

If you want to truly see the perfect in the imperfect, please consider a donation to my personal fundraiser here at the Boston Children’s Hospital.