26.4

Send me

I ran a marathon.

That sentence still feels strange to write.
For someone who has spent years chasing ultras and long mountain days, a road marathon was never really on the list.

For most of my life I never really wanted to run one. In fact, I had a quiet preference for the opposite. I always liked the idea of being able to say I run ultras but have never run a marathon. Something about that just felt right. It sounds tough. And it’s always made for good conversation.

My pride loved it.

This run wasn’t even my idea. These pursuits are rarely my idea.
Badwater. Not my idea.
Ironman. Not my idea.
Rim to Rim. Not my idea…

A friend of mine wanted to do it. He was excited about it, but also a little tentative. The kind of tentative that shows up right before someone commits to something hard. A familiar feeling.

So I did what friends sometimes do.
I registered first and sent him a screenshot.
Just a small nudge.

Sometimes courage needs a witness before it becomes a decision.

The plan from the start was simple: treat the race as a training run. Nothing heroic. Nothing dramatic. Just time on feet.

The day itself unfolded almost exactly that way.

For the first twenty miles I stayed disciplined. Zone 2. Controlled breathing. Patient pacing. The kind of effort that feels almost too easy if you’re used to pushing. The kind of effort that I’ve been wrestling with for the past year. The ungratifying effort I’ve been training for. Then, somewhere around mile twenty, I decided to turn the dial.

The last six miles drifted into Zone 4 and Zone 5. Not reckless, but committed. The kind of effort where you can feel the line between fatigue and resolve.

What surprised me most is that I actually had fun.
That wasn’t what I expected. Thank you, Lord.

But the real reflection didn’t come that day.
It came two weeks later.

A lot happened in those two weeks.
Life didn’t slow down. If anything, it accelerated. School assignments. Work responsibilities. Leading the Suffer Better Initiative. Preparing men for Iron Forge.

I’ve learned to pray for wider shoulders and stronger legs.

In the middle of that, I was lucky enough to be blindfolded and taken to the opening session of Man Camp. The following evening, I led a fireside discussion for Iron Forge candidates. And I spent a Saturday at the Iron Sharpens Iron men’s conference alongside my teammates, sharing the testimony of Suffer Better for the first time. Praise the Lord.

We learned so much. Great connections. A lot of breadcrumbs to follow.

Then the next morning, on Sunday, my pastor preached a message that stuck with me.
It was about adventure and comfort.
Not seeking comfort.

It landed in a way I didn’t expect.
Not because it was loud or dramatic, but because it named something I had been noticing quietly for a while.

There are a lot of men’s retreats that are presented as tough.
But underneath the branding and language, they’re still built around comfort.

Sometimes the hardship is scheduled. Contained. A few hours of difficulty wrapped inside a weekend designed to make sure everyone still feels safe.

I hesitate to call that out too sharply. Everyone is trying to help men grow in their own way. But it’s hard to ignore when you’ve spent enough time in environments where suffering isn’t theoretical.

Over the past couple weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about what Scripture actually says about this.

God doesn’t tell us to avoid suffering.

He tells us to rejoice in it.

Suffering produces endurance.
Endurance produces character.
And character produces hope.

Hope not in ourselves, but in Christ.

We’re also told not to be surprised by fiery trials.
And that raises an uncomfortable question.

If trials are part of the Christian life, why do we spend so much energy trying to engineer environments where they never show up?

Another question I’ve been wrestling with is whether God calls us to slow down.
That’s a common message right now. Slow down. Simplify. Step back.
There is wisdom in that.

But when I look closely at the life of Jesus, the pattern looks a little different.

Yes, He withdrew.
But His withdrawals came after faithful labor.

After teaching crowds.
After healing the sick.
After confronting darkness.
After walking dusty roads with men who didn’t always understand Him.

Then He would go up a mountain. Or disappear into a quiet place. Or rise early in the morning while it was still dark.

Not to escape the mission.
But to return to the Father before stepping back into it.

Strategic withdrawal.
Not comfort.
And that distinction matters.

Because busyness itself may not be the real problem.
The real problem might be moving through life without bringing the Lord with us.
Running ahead of Him.

Or worse, trying to run for Him without ever running with Him.

In the middle of all this reflection, a friend said something to me that landed hard.
He told me I should let my driver go full throttle.
That’s the way I’m wired.

For years I’ve tried to manage that instinct. Temper it. Tone it down. Make it more acceptable.
But maybe the point isn’t to suppress the driver.
Maybe the point is to surrender the driver.
Let the throttle open, but let the direction belong to the Lord.

Which brings me back to the marathon.
Or maybe not the marathon.

The race was supposed to be 26.2 miles.

But somewhere between the course, the turns, and the wandering line that runners tend to take, my watch read 26.4 miles.
And that part wasn’t an accident.

If I’m being honest, I was quietly hoping for it.
Because I’ve always liked the idea of saying I run ultras without ever saying I ran a marathon.

So technically…
I didn’t run a marathon.
I ran an ultra.

Which feels like the right kind of irony.
Because the deeper lesson from the past couple weeks isn’t really about distance.
It’s about direction.

God doesn’t seem interested in building men who pursue comfort.
He builds men who endure.
Men who rejoice in suffering.
Men whose endurance produces character.
And men whose character produces hope.

Hope that doesn’t disappoint.

That kind of formation rarely happens in comfortable places.
It happens on long roads.
Sometimes twenty miles in Zone 2.
Sometimes the last six miles with everything turned up.

And sometimes two weeks later, when the body has recovered but the soul is still asking the Lord what He intends to do with the miles behind. And the miles ahead.

Send me!

Soli Deo Gloria