On Discipline. And other ramblings.
Here's the wild thing: I ran a 5K a couple of weeks ago. I know, amazing, right? Right. Well, out of the two hundred plus people running, I beat, maybe...ten people? And I'm probably being generous with myself. I used to run cross-country for Maryville College, and a 5K would have been like a warm-up two years ago. Pre-pregnancy Jessie would have laughed at the fact that it took me just under forty minutes to run 3.1 miles. Or cried. Whatever. I ran it with three other women I go to church with, one of whom has been training for the last nine weeks for this particular race. Needless to say, I came in last of our foursome, and all three of us came in behind the woman, Sandra, who had actually disciplined herself to run a 5K.
My personal preparation for the 5K was the spontaneous mile-run here and there, sporadic hits at the local gym, and the mentality that I was once a cross-country runner. Talk about living in the glory days.
As I dragged myself over the finish line (no, that's a lie. I actually ran my fastest that last half mile to give the illusion, I guess, that I still had "it") I realized how disgusted I felt with myself. Not because I was drenched in sweat (ew), but because several children had managed to beat my time, because I averaged a thirteen-minute mile, because I couldn't manage to run just three measly miles, because I had taken the 5K lightly...the list goes on. I thought the general feeling after participating in a 5K was one of accomplishment?
The reason I felt so disgusted with my performance was because I knew how good I used to be. I basically shrugged off the importance of disciplining my body to go the distance, staking a lot of my success (or, rather, failure) on what once was. Because of my pregnancy and the duties that come with being a full-time mom, exercise was one of the last things I did, much less train for a 5K. Now, I have every excuse in the book to shrug off exercise, and that's not entirely my point. The point is, I ran a race I was completely unprepared for, fully expecting to do, in the very least, mediocre. I did not expect, however, complete embarrassment. Not that I humiliated myself publicly...most everyone else was busy catching their breath, enjoying the after-race refreshments, or, God-forbid, running another mile to "cool down." But within myself and within the group I ran with...I was embarrassed. So much for expectations.
I guess you can tell where I'm going with this. At church the Sunday after the race, we talked about how the Lord disciplines us, how our relationship with Him is work, how listening to God is quite literally a practice, something we need to work on regularly. We talked about how discipline has always seemed to have a negative connotation, that it's hard to understand the discipline of God. But running that race, and honestly sucking at it, made me realize the art of discipline, the goodness of it, and the importance.
We cannot expect to finish strongly in this life -- Paul himself called life the "good race" -- without everyday disciplining ourselves, our physical, mental, and spiritual bodies. Sure, we can cross the finish line eventually, dragging our beaten, exhausted bodies, but my lack of discipline and endurance made the race a chore, wondering when it will be over, and when it was over, I felt empty, drained, and ashamed at my performance. Only when I become the runner I was meant to be will the race seem fulfilling, a sense of accomplishment, a fun way to spend a Saturday morning. What a great metaphor...I see why Paul chose to refer life as a marathon.
I believe God had every intention of making this life one of enjoyment, fulfillment, and fun. Not to say that there isn't any suffering. For instance, running will always be physically grueling...even when I ran five, six miles a day for fun, it still pounded on my body. But there was joy in that pain, purpose to that suffering. And I believe God had every intention of life being the same way. In order, though, to experience life the way He meant for us to, we must discipline ourselves in a way that makes us endure the hardships. We must learn the art of discipline, of listening to the Lord, of hearing Him and of pursuing His purpose. It is discipline because it goes against our very nature to run from God, to do things the easy way. But discipline doesn't need to have a negative connotation anymore, because of what we are disciplining ourselves for. Makes sense?
As a new parent, I now can see discipline in a better light, in a more panoramic sort of way. Being the giver of discipline now, I can see the bigger picture, how discipline ensures safety, how there's an art to it. What I mean is, discipline doesn't necessarily have to be iron-fisted, a tyranny. I've found that Max, my son, responds to my discipline out of love for me, he obeys me because he ultimately trusts me. There are times, yeah, when he reaches for the hot stove despite my shrieks of warning, and then he gets a little toasty. But overall, he knows what I mean when I say his name a certain way because he knows my voice. He knows my purpose is to keep him safe, that my job as his mommy is to provide for him, to meet his needs, to usher him toward a life of learning and discovering and adventure.
Me, an imperfect parent, who gets angry with Max when he squirms on the changing table...I can love him like that, discipline him in a way that binds his curiosity in a healthy way, show him he's done wrong without losing my temper and destroying that trust in a swift moment...imagine. Imagine how perfectly our Father disciplines us, how purposefully He tends to every moment of our lives, how every time He says "no" or requires a moment of our time, He hasn't inconvenienced us, or punished us, but in the great scheme of things is protecting us, providing for us, begging us to trust Him and His judgment, even encouraging us to explore, to have an adventure on His terms. And what exciting terms that can be.
So...that's what I've got to say for now. Something a little bit more substantial than the previous post, but hey, I can only be serious in a limited time frame.
My personal preparation for the 5K was the spontaneous mile-run here and there, sporadic hits at the local gym, and the mentality that I was once a cross-country runner. Talk about living in the glory days.
As I dragged myself over the finish line (no, that's a lie. I actually ran my fastest that last half mile to give the illusion, I guess, that I still had "it") I realized how disgusted I felt with myself. Not because I was drenched in sweat (ew), but because several children had managed to beat my time, because I averaged a thirteen-minute mile, because I couldn't manage to run just three measly miles, because I had taken the 5K lightly...the list goes on. I thought the general feeling after participating in a 5K was one of accomplishment?
The reason I felt so disgusted with my performance was because I knew how good I used to be. I basically shrugged off the importance of disciplining my body to go the distance, staking a lot of my success (or, rather, failure) on what once was. Because of my pregnancy and the duties that come with being a full-time mom, exercise was one of the last things I did, much less train for a 5K. Now, I have every excuse in the book to shrug off exercise, and that's not entirely my point. The point is, I ran a race I was completely unprepared for, fully expecting to do, in the very least, mediocre. I did not expect, however, complete embarrassment. Not that I humiliated myself publicly...most everyone else was busy catching their breath, enjoying the after-race refreshments, or, God-forbid, running another mile to "cool down." But within myself and within the group I ran with...I was embarrassed. So much for expectations.
I guess you can tell where I'm going with this. At church the Sunday after the race, we talked about how the Lord disciplines us, how our relationship with Him is work, how listening to God is quite literally a practice, something we need to work on regularly. We talked about how discipline has always seemed to have a negative connotation, that it's hard to understand the discipline of God. But running that race, and honestly sucking at it, made me realize the art of discipline, the goodness of it, and the importance.
We cannot expect to finish strongly in this life -- Paul himself called life the "good race" -- without everyday disciplining ourselves, our physical, mental, and spiritual bodies. Sure, we can cross the finish line eventually, dragging our beaten, exhausted bodies, but my lack of discipline and endurance made the race a chore, wondering when it will be over, and when it was over, I felt empty, drained, and ashamed at my performance. Only when I become the runner I was meant to be will the race seem fulfilling, a sense of accomplishment, a fun way to spend a Saturday morning. What a great metaphor...I see why Paul chose to refer life as a marathon.
I believe God had every intention of making this life one of enjoyment, fulfillment, and fun. Not to say that there isn't any suffering. For instance, running will always be physically grueling...even when I ran five, six miles a day for fun, it still pounded on my body. But there was joy in that pain, purpose to that suffering. And I believe God had every intention of life being the same way. In order, though, to experience life the way He meant for us to, we must discipline ourselves in a way that makes us endure the hardships. We must learn the art of discipline, of listening to the Lord, of hearing Him and of pursuing His purpose. It is discipline because it goes against our very nature to run from God, to do things the easy way. But discipline doesn't need to have a negative connotation anymore, because of what we are disciplining ourselves for. Makes sense?
As a new parent, I now can see discipline in a better light, in a more panoramic sort of way. Being the giver of discipline now, I can see the bigger picture, how discipline ensures safety, how there's an art to it. What I mean is, discipline doesn't necessarily have to be iron-fisted, a tyranny. I've found that Max, my son, responds to my discipline out of love for me, he obeys me because he ultimately trusts me. There are times, yeah, when he reaches for the hot stove despite my shrieks of warning, and then he gets a little toasty. But overall, he knows what I mean when I say his name a certain way because he knows my voice. He knows my purpose is to keep him safe, that my job as his mommy is to provide for him, to meet his needs, to usher him toward a life of learning and discovering and adventure.
Me, an imperfect parent, who gets angry with Max when he squirms on the changing table...I can love him like that, discipline him in a way that binds his curiosity in a healthy way, show him he's done wrong without losing my temper and destroying that trust in a swift moment...imagine. Imagine how perfectly our Father disciplines us, how purposefully He tends to every moment of our lives, how every time He says "no" or requires a moment of our time, He hasn't inconvenienced us, or punished us, but in the great scheme of things is protecting us, providing for us, begging us to trust Him and His judgment, even encouraging us to explore, to have an adventure on His terms. And what exciting terms that can be.
So...that's what I've got to say for now. Something a little bit more substantial than the previous post, but hey, I can only be serious in a limited time frame.
posted by Jessie | 4:25 PM
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