About this River in Africa …

Well, it’s been three weeks since I developed my strange knee injury — the one that doesn’t announce itself until about 4-6 miles into a run. I haven’t written about it much because, well, no one wants to read about other people’s injuries, but also because I’ve been in denial. I’ve been hoping that eventually the pain would disappear and, more important, it would not keep me from running the L.A. Marathon in March.

But even after reconfiguring my training schedule to allow for some more rest, things haven’t gotten better. Sunday was supposed to be a make-or-break test. I would run 18 miles: If I could pull it off, I would continue preparing for the marathon; if I could not, it would be back to the drawing board.

So I set out around noon, and felt sporadic pain in my left knee throughout. I ran through the pain a few times, and usually it went away quickly. Until mile 6. Then the pain got too great to continue, and I could no longer run it off. Sadly, I ended up calling it quits at 6.2 mi. and walking home. Even still, I think I pushed myself too hard: The pain now endures.

Nonetheless, I still cling to my denial: “Maybe I should take the week off, and see if I can pull off a long run next weekend,” I tell myself. “Maybe I could get better, and still be in reasonable shape, in time for the marathon.”

But in my heart of hearts, I know this is wishful thinking. I’ll gladly accept a miracle if God wills to grant me one, but so far, all the signs suggest that He’s asking me to give this marathon up.

I’m frustrated, but I’m trying to keep things in perspective. I also know there will be other marathons, and I cannot wait for the day that, God willing, I will be ready to run one again. Till then, I pray for the patience and acceptance that this disappointment demands.

The Lord is near to the brokenhearted,
and saves the crushed in spirit.

—Psalm 34:18