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Over the weekend, I went on a church retreat with about ten girls to Edisto Island. That Saturday morning, I was reading through the Gospel of John at the dining table, about to make an iced latte, when a few girls started getting ready to go on a run.

Obviously, they thought I should come with them for their “light jog on the beach,” but I said, “No, I’ll stay. I have no endurance, anyway.”

But I felt God telling me that if I remained comfortable in my seat, I would feel convicted. I would be too comfortable. I wouldn’t be pushing myself and proving that I CAN do uncomfy things. I forgot about the latte and laced up my Converse (I came unprepared for physical activity), and the four of us darted to the beach. 

“Oh,” I said between breaths, “this isn’t so bad. Is it normal for your ankles to hurt?”
“Yeah, that’s okay. Probably just your Converse,” said Pinto. 

We made it to the beach, deciding there to alternate between walking and running intervals. “Thank God,” I thought. Because my body endurance was dwindling. 

“Let’s make it to that blue house,” said S’morris. 

“Oh, my word,” I cried. “Okay, yeah, no, I can do this.”

It was a cold morning, and I was dressed in sweatpants and a sweatshirt, hair up in a claw clip. But inside my chest, my lungs stretched with every breath, my heart beating into my throat at any movement that was off pace. I felt like I was going to die. Seriously, drop dead right there on the beach. My chest burned––BURNED––with what I could only assume was fire inside my lungs or the beginning of a heart attack. 

“You got this, Macy!” said Skylar. “Almost there!” 

When I made it to the end of our running interval, I collapsed over a wet rock and attempted a high-five. 

“I––I can’t. . .You go without me,” I mumbled. 

But I knew better. If I could make it through one more running interval, I would let myself stop. 

(By the way––this “runner’s high” that I hear people talking about? I don’t think it exists. In fact, I never got past the “this sucks” part of running, which all the girls warned me about. “You just have to get over the bad part, and then it’s okay,” they cheered. Spare me. . .)

During the walking interval, I breathed, felt the heat simmering on my skin underneath my sweatshirt, and sensed that I would soon succumb to unconsciousness. At our next running interval, I pushed through the pain, barely made it to the next rock I collapsed over, and proudly told the girls to go on without me. Black dots prickled my vision, and my knees started to give out. Had I passed out right there, I wouldn’t have cared. I was at a beautiful beach, and I had just accomplished something that the Lord had pushed me to do. 

Listen, I’m not an unhealthy person. In fact, for Lent, I went vegetarian! I’m just saying my body lives a slow-paced life. We enjoy things like slow walks on the beach, exploring an island by bicycle, or just porch sittin’. 

I walked back to the beach house, took a shower, and had that darn latte. But my chest felt good to be sore, and my legs felt good to hurt from fulfilling something the Lord had told me to do for the sake of growth, obedience, and getting out of my very comfortable comfort zone, all to honor Him.