Our oldest son, Ethan, runs cross-country for his high school. He is fast, trains hard, and is eager to improve. One evening, Ryan, Audrey (our youngest), and I went together to watch Ethan race. It was a twilight run, starting at eight under the lights of an old high school field. Music blared and runners stretched and did warm-up laps around the track. The bleachers were peppered with parents in their down-filled puffer coats, holding umbrellas in case the clouds opened up.
We caught up with Ethan before the race, patting him on the back. “Stay focused. Run hard. This is your race!”
The crowd of boys in their various school colors huddled together at the starting line, and the gun sounded. Off they went, with Ethan in the front of the pack. On the first of eight laps, he came around the
curve to where we were cheering from the stands, looked up at us, and gave us a thumbs-up.
Adorable and heart swelling for a mom? Absolutely. Man, he’s such a good kid, I thought. I’m so glad he still likes us. It reminded me of when he was a preschooler playing indoor soccer for the first time. None of the boys knew what they were doing; they ran in a little mob in their striped soccer socks and parks-and-rec T-shirts, chasing the ball and scanning the sidelines for their parents.
It was sweet that Ethan looked up at us during his race. He wanted us to see him, to cheer for him. He wanted to impress us with his running, his determination, his attitude. On the second lap, he did
the same, taking the final curve and turning his face to us, smiling. By the third and fourth laps, he was losing his place at the front, yet he was still giving us a quick arm pump as he passed by. At that point, Ryan and I glanced at each other and agreed, “He needs to stop looking around and just run his race.” As he came around the corner, we both yell-cheered, “Stay focused. Run hard. This is your race!” On his final lap, he didn’t look at us but instead peered behind him to gauge his competition, finally sprinting with the last of his energy to the finish. He had a fine race, finishing in the middle of the pack and improving on his personal record by a second or two, but he knew he could do better. All that effort spent looking around had cost him his chance to run his best race.
When Ethan first told me he wanted to run cross country, I was supportive but a little confused. “You know it’s a lot of running, right?” I’m not a runner. My lungs and shins don’t like it, and speed has never been my thing. The running metaphors in the Bible are a bit lost on me because of my lack of interest in the sport. The ones about salt and yeast, sure—I like to bake. But running, not so much. However, after watching Ethan run his first race, I could see what the famous run your race Scripture was talking about:
“Let us run with endurance the race that lies before us, keeping our eyes on Jesus, the source and
perfecter of our faith” (Hebrews 12:1-2 ʜᴄsʙ). Diverting my eyes from the things that caused me to compare did not make the problem of soul-deep unrest and uncertainty about my value go away. The supermodels with their flawless faces were not the problem; Instagram with its endless images of perfect houses, trendy outfits, and polished smiles was not either. My instinct to compare revealed a part of my troubled, tired heart: I was looking for my sense of value and identity in places it would never be found. I used comparison to help me figure out who I was, how I stacked up, and whether I was more or less beautiful/creative/skinny/successful, and then I drew conclusions about my worth based on my assessment.
The problem with comparison is that it leads my eyes away from the purposed path ahead. I’m like my adorable Ethan running his race: good-intentioned but distracted, eyes darting and losing focus. I was earnestly running the race of life trying to meet my own impossible expectations, unaware of how I constantly looked up into the stands, concerned with who was watching, how I looked, whether I was doing it right, who was in front of me, and who was behind, all the while tripping up and missing the point.
The real rest Jesus invites us to experience is more than the midrace, hands-on-knees breather we think we need. It’s so much more. It’s a chance to lay down the behaviors and the beliefs that are keeping
us frantic and trade them in for real purpose, belonging, identity, and love. Insecurity is a sneaky beast, ravenous and unassuming. It twists truths and tells us lies about who we are. It keeps us bound and striving, preoccupied with self and trying so hard to prove we’re valuable that we miss the real truth.
No amount of striving, proving, performing, or hiding will make us more acceptable. No one in the stands can give us enough validation. No race ranking will make us worthier. Comparing ourselves to those with less is just as damaging as measuring ourselves up against those with more. The woman with the perfect manicure and the dream job and the one with the messy topknot who still hasn’t figured out what she wants to be when she grows up are each equally beloved because of Christ.
His final words on the cross made it known; we have nothing left to do and no one else to be to earn God’s favor. It is finished. He calls me enough. He calls you enough.
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