Lines

The man in the red vest was a good pace maker. I tried to keep my eyes fixed on the back of his head whilst focussing on the motivational playlist, which was blasting out of my headphones. There was no doubt that the first 8km of the Pennine 10K were leaving their mark on the muscle tissue around my legs, arms, back, neck and backside. I was a disaster dressed up in running gear.

The fact I had passed the 8km marker brought a wry smile to my red face. Who was this pace maker in front of me? Was this his first long distance race like mine? Did his lower back feel like it was about to fall through his legs? Why was he cocking his head to one side and blowing profusely through his left nostril? What is this sticky, watery-like fluid now running down my face?! Oh yes friends, he just blew his nose and the wind directed his release to my head. What a wonderful way to celebrate the final stint of a charity run.

The crowds of people cheered us on as we hit the final straight in Blackburn. My adopted hometown in East Lancashire proved a fitting place for me to complete my debut distance attempt. The finish line stood like a human magnet drawing this painful saga to an end. I shifted gears and performed a sprint finish. I must have looked like a disabled gorilla after seven pints of Stella. Lying face down on the grass in Witton Park, surrounded by fellow fund raisers, I was stunned by the sense of unity. We had done it. All in different ways and in different times. Each of us wearing different colours inspired by different stories. We started the race as strangers but sweat like friends throughout. Our team of journalists who ran together shared quirky events which had faced them on the journey. Some spoke of the temptations to stop, puke and/or faint. Others ushered in their hard-earned rest which was to come. We all laughed at the Welsh boy (yours truly) who was at one time covered in the snot of a stranger.

Carl Beech once drew a parallel between his Marathon efforts and the Christian experience, and how right he was.

My conclusion was this. At the end of our race, it’s not that we will forget the messy, nonsensical invasions of our lives, nor will we pretend the pain was a mere sub plot. We will however, be so engrossed in the welcome which awaits us who keep our hope in the words of the one they call Jesus, that we will consider everything else as second best.

Some of us have barely left the starting point in our Christian faith, whilst others are performing their sprint finish. Some however, are wiping down their faces after a seriously unpleasant encounter. In our different shirts and various abilities, we run this life awaiting a full revelation of what we have seen in glimpses. The finish line of the faithful.

Read the words of John as he peers into heaven in the book of Revelations:

I turned around to see the voice that was speaking to me. And when I turned I saw seven golden lampstands, and among the lampstands was someone like a son of man, dressed in a robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest. His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire. His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and out of his mouth came a sharp double-edged sword. His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance. When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. Then he placed his right hand on me and said: “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.”

This is the finish line we are stumbling towards.

Peace.