My choice to run cross-country during high school (and, for awhile, during college) was a true labor of love. While that might sound like a lazy cliché, the blessings of being able to be a part of T.L. Hanna’s high school varsity team exposed me to both joy and pain in deep abundance.
My sweat, the occasional blood, and scraps of my skin — and my every breath — became libations, a “pouring out” of myself that felt like a living, smelly, and somehow holy sacrifice. With the lacing of my running shoes, I knew that part of the journey ahead would be, for me, a sacred offering of thanksgiving that embodied the gratitude for God’s gift of two legs and for the desire to compete.
At the outset of every practice or race, I knew that a battle was about to begin. Yet, these confrontations were not simply my competing against some other adversary — another runner who happened to be wearing a differently-colored jersey. Instead, I face many other challenges and opportunities.
Most visibly, there was the ever-present conflict between my body and my balance, gravity, sticks, roots, branches all seemed involved in a conspiracy to bring me to the ground at regular intervals. Each time I set out to run in a meet, my mind made room for normal concerns and thoughts:“What am I going to hit today? How much skin am I going to leave behind? How many times am I going to fall?” If I made it through a race without falling, it was a good race, regardless of the time. Most races, though, I have to confess, I fell at least twice. In fact, one race I fell a total of eight times. I cannot fully describe the pain and frustration that comes with that many falls over a 5,000-meter distance, but having the wind knocked out of me over and over was excruciating and, on some days, the levels of my frustration would definitely hit a peak. Yes, I loved running and racing. And yes, my joy and elation was almost always balanced out by feelings of anger — anger not at any person, but at the obstacles always knocking me down and keeping me down.
My teammates were my saving grace. At each of our cross-country meets, the guys would finish, turn on their heels, and come back onto the course to run me in. That’s right. After finishing their own exhausting and painful sprint of several miles, they’d catch a quick breath and gulp of water, and come back for me.
The girls on our team would line the course (since usually they had run already) and then they’d jump in and jog behind me as I ran on. It was always an amazing experience as the team would gather around me. I knew for myself that God had a hand in what I was doing because he sent my teammates to be my guardian angels. They would lead the way, and help me up the times when I needed a boost. They never gave up on me, even when a race was going about as badly as it possibly could.
Their primary weapon for helping me win these struggles was encouragement. I’ve always liked encouragement, the feeling of their presence as I’d push my body to make it through to the end. I always liked the sound and feel of their loving support as I’d cross the finish line. Having people that truly cared for me was (and is) a blessing. Being part of a team that accepted me exactly as I was and exactly for who I am — the “me” that God made in His own image — has been one of the greatest experiences of my life.
Ben Comen, who resides in Anderson, S.C., and his family have founded the Ben Comen, Living Without Limits Fund of the Foothills Community Foundation.
