Vulnerability and Victory in 7 million steps

The alarm went off at 5:15am. I wanted to hit the snooze button and snuggle deeper under the covers. But I didn’t. My husband was stirring, plus our friends would be in our driveway in 15 minutes.

Every Friday (rain or shine, snow or ice) for more than 2 years my husband and I threw on tennis shoes and sweatshirts and met Tylee and Larence Searle for a 5-mile walk. In the stillness of all those mornings before the sun rose, we walked over 7 million steps or 28 million if you combine the 4 of us.

It started as a way to exercise and quickly morphed into sacred time.

There was something about consistent time together, physical activity and lack of eye contact as we navigated the dark road that built trust and a safe place to share.

At first we relived the most recent high school basketball or soccer game, play by play. But with every step, our hearts opened and we became a little more vulnerable.

We walked through grief and confusion, anger and fear, worry and uncertainty. We walked through the deaths of two parents, one with ill-health and one whose death came without warning. We shared the mental and emotional exhaustion of giving care to aging parents. We stepped through tricky spots in our marriage and family relationships. We shared the heartbreak of children’s stumbles and hurdles. We talked about job loss and the pressure of providing for our families.

We discussed what we were reading and anything we found helpful. We held onto hope and faith. We noticed the hand of God in our lives.

We walked beside each other, step for step, making our way to the same destination. Although it may have seemed like we were on the same path, each was unique. We had different childhoods, defining moments and loved ones. We had different perspectives and emotions.

In sharing we learned that we are not alone in our struggles. We learned that sometimes it is best to say “I’m sorry” or “I’m here” or to say nothing at all. That sometimes it is best to let your tears be seen or to give a tight hug or to say a prayer.

We loved each other for who we were right then. We honored the mountains we had scaled. We recognized the people we had become as life’s difficulties had chipped and smoothed rough edges.

In sharing our imperfections, failures, shattered hopes and heartaches, we saw each other. Really saw each other. Like how Jesus Christ sees us.

• Unsteady and firm
• Questioning and faithful
• Disobedient and valuable
• Powerless and powerful
• Selfish and loved
• Broken with the potential to become whole through Him
• Nothing without Him and filled with His glory
• Graven on the palms of His hands

All of this on a Friday before the workday began.

Red-faced and breathless from our ascent of the mountain (at least I was), we’d stop in the driveway to finish our talk. As we separated for the day, we’d flash the peace sign. To us it meant V for victory.

Tylee’s dad called it a victory when he made time to train. What started as a victory of fitness over sleep, of discipline over inactivity, became a victory of imperfection over perfection, of connection over isolation, of faith over fear.

Victory.