I discovered, this fall, somewhere among the field trips and family trips and oft-too-common guilt trips, a new favorite sport. Which may be shocking to those of you who know I don’t have an athletic bone in my body or any interest whatsoever in watching any athletic event that isn’t the Olympics. (Or those in which my children are participating, but that’s only under obligation and a small amount of duress.)

But this fall, due largely to the afore-mentioned obligation, I discovered the deeply personal, deeply moving, deeply inspiring sport of cross country.

I’m serious.

Really.

Laugh if you want, but I choked back tears at every event I was able to attend. Why?

Because I may not get running, but I sure as heck get cross country.

On a cold, damp, windy Saturday morning, 200 or more kids stand hopping up and down at the start line, geared up to run a race in which only three of them will place.

What motivates them to do this? And what moves me to tears about a pack of kids running two miles out in the cold when I could be in bed?

I’ll tell you.

It’s the kids that round that corner to the finish line—they may be in tenth place, they may be in one hundred and tenth place, they may be in dead last place—and see the line ahead and suddenly come to life, kicking it in to full speed with the last, little bit of energy they have, sprinting those last 100 yards like they are running to win the prize.

What makes the second to the last child suddenly find her inner speed-racer? What makes the weakest, most worn out kid on the field suddenly come to life? Is it the adrenaline? Perhaps. The cheers from the side-lines? I’m sure it helps. But there’s something more that drives them—it’s written all over their faces.

You can see the exact moment determination fires in their belly. And you can see what they’re thinking as if thought bubbles suddenly appear above their heads:

I’m not gonna let that girl pass me.

I’ve been chasing him the whole race. He’s mine.

I’m gonna pass three more people.

I’m gonna finish this race spent.

I’m gonna beat my last time.

I’m gonna get a personal best.

In a field of 200, less than 2% will place. What motivates the other 98% to run the race, knowing they aren’t going to medal?

Because cross country, it turns out, isn’t about winning.

Cross country is about pulling out a personal best.

All too often, when pursuing God’s best for our lives, we look too often to the left or the right, thinking:

I can’t possibly compete with that.

I don’t have what it takes.

I have no idea what I’m doing.

I have nothing of value to offer to anyone.

I have nothing of worth to say.

And in doing so, we disqualify ourselves from running in such a way as to get the prize (1 Corinthians 9:24).

I’ve done this, friends. You’ve done it, too. But you know what?

We’re not going to do it any longer.

If we are to live in the fullness of God’s love, we can no longer look to the left or the right. We can no longer make trivial comparisons, measuring our stride against that of another. We can no longer focus anywhere other than the finish line. The crown of laurels. The “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

We must fix our eyes on none other than Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith. And we must run toward him with all we have—pouring out every last bit of strength that is left to muster—and find him there, at the finish line, arms outstretched, ready to receive us, medal in hand.

Personal best.

That’s my desire. How about you?

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