Finish Line

I've heard people say "never say never," but I don't think I've ever been that kind of person. Frankly, I've come up with a list of things that I've said I'd never do:

-I'll never skydive.

-I'll never bungee jump.

-I'll never be a cat person.

-I'll never be a plant person.

Flashback to even a couple of years ago, when I said I'd never be a runner. I ran my first 5K last summer and even then I said I'd never run anything bigger than a 5k. And yet, I'm proud to say that I have checked off a Washington State Bucket List by completing Bloomsday, a 12 K race through Spokane, Washington.

As I learned more about the race, there were people who lamented the "Doomsday Hill," a steep 3/4 mile hill. I was told about the crowds and the chaos, but I was also told about the neighborhood community that cheers you on and the feeling you get when you've crossed the finish line and been rewarded with the official finisher t-shirt. I imagine this was what led me to navigate the official Bloomsday site and register for the race.

I made the two hour drive to Spokane, and after averting complete crises caused by the one-way streets of downtown, I made it to my hotel for a good night's rest. The forecast predicted rain, and it did, indeed, rain. I told myself that once I got going, I wouldn't even notice the light but steady drizzle. For a moment, that was true. But at about mile 4, I felt the hood on my hoodie and was able to wring out more rain than I expected. I wanted to run as much as my body would let me but stopped when the streets got a little crowded by all the bodies. I took advantage of the downhills, trying to gain whatever momentum I could. At one point I had to stop to tie my shoe. I prayed a Divine Mercy chaplet as I ran past the cemetary. When I got tired, I tried my best to keep my eyes forward and not get distracted by the idle conversations going on around me. I reached Doomsday Hill and made it up just fine. I decided not to stop and take a selfie with the Doomsday vulture at the top of the hill. There were only about two miles left. Once I saw the finish line, I ran. Who doesn't sprint when they know the end is close?

As I crossed the finish line, I was proud of myself. Who wouldn't be? Having completed the race, I would be rewarded with the finisher t-shirt, which many say is a collector's item, which I am proudly wearing right now as I write this post. And as I contemplate all the emotions that came with crossing the finish line, I'm thinking of many others who are doing the same, reaching the end of one chapter in their lives and entering into the next. You see, crossing the finish line is usually met with a feeling of accomplishment, excitement, and pride. While I felt all three after finishing Bloomsday, I also knew there was another road ahead of me: the 2-hour drive home back to the Tri-Cities - and I wasn't so excited about that.

Two weeks removed from the situation, the reflections are still pretty fresh in my mind, especially as they dovetail with other more recent experiences. There are millions of cliches about "every new beginning coming from some other beginning's end." But I'm wondering more and more why we rush into the next phase when the current one is barely done. Maybe these are the bitter musings of someone who has had far too much on her plate or someone who is facing far too many goodbyes. But I also wonder if there's something to be said for sitting at the finish line for a little longer than necessary to savor the moment of accomplishment, of having done something worthy, of just being with the people who helped get you there. Maybe this is just God's way of telling me to slow down and enjoy the moment I'm in.

Sure, I find it kind of ironic that it took a race (which is supposed to be fast) to come to that conclusion. But when it comes to sage advice, I'll take it wherever I can. And I heard a bit this morning that I think is applicable to me in this situation. At the finish line, it may be a good place to do the both - and. It's good to celebrate the triumph and overcome the sadness that's to come. Detachment is hard, whether it's from the finish line or the accomplishment we've just made. But there's one thing that never changes. No matter where we go, we get to keep the experience, and the love stays, too. That's something I'm willing to take.

But I'll probably still never be a skydiver.