Somewhere out of the fog a crystal-clear memory smacked me from forty-plus years ago. It was the memory of the last time I felt unable to breathe. My college team was competing in a big Track and Field invitational in Claremont, California. It was May of 1970 in that smog-shrouded suburb just East of Los Angeles. The pollution was so dense on that hot afternoon that the runners on the other side of the track were colorless and indistinct in the haze. I was running the 3000 meter steeplechase in which I had been leading until the home stretch. Then everything went foggy, my legs went limp and somebody turned off the oxygen. I hit and fell over the next to last barrier. Staggering in slow motion for the next eighty yards I literally crawled over the final barrier. I was out on my feet, resembling one of those aphid-like specters crawling to the finish of the Ironman triathlon. The combination of heat and smog had put me in severe oxygen debt. Falling across the line after three runners had passed me in my semi-comatose state, I could barely gasp enough air to stay conscious.
My coach, not known for his bedside manner, probed me with his toe and a couple of questions, and left me to my own devices. For over an hour I could not get off the ground. Looking back, it was a lot more serious than I thought at the time. Some water, some shade, and a long time later I was able to move. In the meantime my chest ached, as it would for several days afterwards.
While I was helpless, however, I observed our coach cruising around looking for four guys to run the mile relay. It was the last event and if we could score any points at all we could win the meet. Everyone was exhausted, but I remember my admiration for the decathlete who had run four events, the long-jumper and sprinter for whom a quarter mile was a gut-buster, the middle distance guy who had doubled already, and the lone quarter miler who would anchor this ragtag team. I so wanted to contribute, but knew I was helpless to do so. The vision of those guys stepping up and carrying the team is one of my sweetest memories of competition.
I feel that way today. I want to run a different kind of race, but I am temporarily unable to function in my normal capacity. But, I see other men keeping the pace, stepping up, and carrying the baton. Leary, Art, Brent, Dave, Paul, Terry, Ron, John, Dean, Peter, Gary, and a dozen others run on. While I wheeze my way back to health it is not lost on me that the call of the gospel, the building up of the body of Christ, and the courageous advance of ministry is not mine alone. I so love and admire the men I’m teamed with. I am proud of your devotion, all the more when I am sedentary and you are pressing on. David was humbled by his mighty men. I am humbled and grateful for each of you. When I breathe, and run, and carry my leg of the relay again, it will be with a fresh reverence for the ongoing faithfulness of the men I run with.
