Dreary. Doldrums. Blahs. Boredom. The words meandered through my mind as I went out for my run this morning. It’s been raining. A lot. It feels like non-stop. I didn’t want to be out there. My feet were heavy, crashing against the asphalt as I plodded along. I wanted to crumble, cower, curl up. Anything but run. One foot in front of the other, I made my way to the middle school. I slowed to a walk. I stopped, sat down on the cold, wet curb and cried. Sobbed, really.
Last Easter was my dad’s final trip to the Northwest. It feels like a mountain of memories that I must climb, knowing what waits on the other side. We had family photos taken, followed by a delightful barbecue with friends. Dad was conversational, jovial, in his element. We took a trip out to Mukilteo beach, enjoying the sunshine, and ate Chinese food back at their hotel. He sat and had a mocha during our church’s Easter service.
All of his favorite things.
Sitting on the curb, I begin to pray.
First, a statement.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this.
A slight shift.
I can’t do this.
And then a question.
Can you please carry me through?
I imagine Jesus throwing me over his back, carrying me, as I begin this climb, another stop along the journey.
I watch the water flow like a stream, down the gutter and under my knees, the sound of raindrops on my nylon hood.
Can you please carry me?
I stand to head for home, slowly starting my run again. I don’t feel quite so heavy on the return trip. There might even be a spring in my step.
My prayer is already answered.
I am already being carried.