As I lay on the ground dry heaving for what seemed like the thousandth time, I heard hope with a British accent.
The day was supposed to be like any other marathon day. It was going to be warm, especially for London, so I adjusted my goal pace significantly. I don’t do well in the heat. Apparently I had not adjusted it enough.
My wife and I started the run together. Beginning in Greenwich and running across the famed Tower Bridge, things started off well. I could tell my stomach was not feeling well. I told my wife to go ahead and have a good race. I was going to slow down.
The race was amazing. I love the English architectural style. The crowd support was non-stop, and the signs people were holding on the side of the road displayed that unique blend of British properness and raunchiness. To say the wheels fell off towards the end is an understatement. My last 9 miles took forever. They included a lot of walking, a few times stumbling to the ground, and even a lengthy stay in a medical tent with three miles to go.
I left the medical tent knowing that I had a slow walk to the finish. I just could not stop throwing up (sorry!). But quarter mile by quarter mile I inched my way towards the finish. I made way to Big Ben and Parliament, which meant I was on the final mile. I was so close, and yet I knew I could not make it without a rest. I dropped to the ground just before Buckingham Palace.
A police officer (or is it a Bobby?) walked over to check on me and asked if I needed medical attention. I told her that I would be ok, I just needed to rest.
That’s when I heard him yell, “C’mon mate give us your arms, and we will carry you to the finish.” For the sake of editing I am censoring their conversation. One of the two said that he had struggled today as well, and had already spent an hour in the medical tent. I politely told them “no thank you.” but they were not going to take “no” for an answer.
They reached down, picked me up, wrapped my arms around each of their shoulders, and the three of us limped together the final 1200 yards–past Buckingham Palace and onto the mall and the finish. As we walked my new friends Matt and Mark, encouraged the crowd to cheer us on by repeatedly yelling at them to ‘Make some f@%$ noise!”
As much trouble as I was in, I could not help but smile at what was taking place. We crossed the line together and congratulated each other before they dropped me off at a medical tent. A quick check by the staff and I was good to go, but Matt and Mark were gone.
I know that the athletic “suffering” analogies are overused, but I’ll add one more to the pile. It’s not lost on me that my suffering was self-inflicted and vain. I could have stopped at any point. But I was suffering. Two people I had never met took the time to see me in my distress. Two men took the time two veer off their convenient path to help someone in need. Two men would not take “no” for an answer. Two men cared just as much about my success as their own.
As I think about the suffering in the world today, it’s hard not to feel rather hopeless. The severity of Israel-Gaza, the immigration catastrophe, and the uncertain economies are all too real. Personal struggles of physical and mental illnesses envelop us. Every week it seems that someone I am close to gets some bad news. It all adds up to a sense of despair.
But the hope that came with a British accent reminds me that all is not lost. These two men did something very small for humankind, but it meant the world to me.
While I continue to think about and call for change regarding the big issues of the world, I am reminded that I am also called to do those small things that mean so much. Participating in the food distribution program at church, sitting with and working for the undocumented close to my community, being attuned to the suffering around and taking the time to do the small things to help alleviate it. These are acts through which the Kingdom of God comes among us. I don’t have to be perfect. Matt and Mark were not exactly having stellar races either. They did, however, have care and determination. And because of them, I was able to limp to the finish.
I don’t imagine Matt and Mark are avid RJ readers, but I want to thank them for both the help and the hope they offered me. Even though it was painful, they made it a jolly-good day.
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The Traveler’s Path
Finding Spiritual Growth and Inspiration Through Travel
by Douglas Brouwer
published by Reformed Journal Books
Order yours on Bookshop.Com
8 Responses
“With deeds of love and mercy the heavenly kingdom comes.” Indeed.
Thank you for sharing such self-inflicted suffering. Many of us can identify.
But this also inspires us to be the ministering angels to others in need.
Chad,
I love this story of yours, which is itself “one of those small things that mean so much” you talk about in the end. So hopeful. So inspiring. So encouraging. Thanks once again for helping us see the deep goodness in strangers.
Thank you for this story. Over a decade ago while spectating the Boston Marathon, I saw a runner go down, grab his shin, and rock in agony. Dozens of runners did the expected thing and ran around him, keeping to their pace. But two runners stopped and knelt by him until medics arrived, checked him over, and helped him limp off the course. Only then did they resumed the race. I’m sure those two runners’ official race result was not what they would have wanted. They cared more about being humans fully alive than acquiring bragging rights as runners. I think about them often, but had not connected them with hope. I’m grateful that your essay and its title enrich my understanding of what I witnessed.
Yours is a story with human connection at its core. My husband had open-heart surgery a week ago; the connections we made during this past week continue to astound and give immense hope. Regular people going the extra mile with the sharing of faith journeys, the quick hug, the random kindness each day. Multiply our experience by millions and we know this exists in spades everywhere. Thank you for reminding us of these random moments of grace.
Thanks, Chad.
I seem to recall some other story.
Four men who lowered their mate through a hole in the roof.
Thanks, Chad. My wife and I were in London this weekend and saw the set up for the marathon. I was wishing I was running marathons again. Your post reminded me of the reasons I’m glad I’m not. Love those angels that help you get through.
Excellent story and finish . . . . were your new friends also Marines? “No man left behind” could be part of the message.