I’m still sweating a bit. The Price is Right is on in the background. The window is open on the warm cloudy fall day. My run went well. ‘Well’ is a relative term I suppose. The actual run was itself not so great. I arrived at my usual area of departure, the Greenway near my home. Since my knee began screaming at me last week, I decided to take a week off. My plan this morning was to begin again and do a leisurely slow 4 miles, an easy to mediocre distance and pace in the running world. Stretched a little and I was off. Knee felt good, not breathing too hard, saying good morning to the retired old people who are also out and about on this Friday morning. Nice morning. From out of nowhere up beside me comes another pounder of the pavement, someone else crazy enough to run even though there isn’t a wild animal chasing them. He was thinner than I am and his skin was about as dark as I have seen. He immediately struck up a conversation as if he knew me. “You’re a runner,” he said. “It would appear so since I am in fact running at the moment,” I sarcastically thought to myself. He was not out of breath at all and I wondered aloud how far he had planned on running this particular morning. “I’m shooting for 18,” he said, “but I’ve only done about 12 so far. How many are you doing?” I contemplated lying and saying something like 10 or 12. That’s a respectable distance for a white guy who is obviously not a professional athlete as my running companion. “I’m only doing four,” I said, quickly following that up with the story of how my knee had been hurting the week before. He was not sympathetic and urged me to do at least 6 with him promising to get me through it. By this time we were not at a leisurely place anymore. “We’ll...see....how...I...feel,” I said forcing words through my deep breaths as the sweat was already beginning to run down my forehead. He obviously noticed that I was struggling to talk and thus began enlightening me with his running history. He was a marathoner and had run the Country Music Marathon here in Nashville this past April. He had not done very well though because he had only begun training a month before. His time...2 hours and 50 minutes. The winner did it in 2 hours and 13 minutes this year. “That’s not bad,” I said, trying to seem somewhat neutral and unimpressed in my tone of voice. His plan was to run it this coming year in at least 2 hours and 25 minutes since he was training now. As we approached an ominous looking hill I attempted to slow down. “Come on man,” he said, “You do good. You skinny like a runner.” “Ha!” was all I could mutter as we climbed the hill. Trying to switch the conversation away from running as I was definitely outmatched I said, “So where are you from?” “Sudan,” he replied, “I come over in 1999 through immigration due to the war.” Coming down the other side of the hill now, I got my breath back in time to tell him that I knew a couple of the Lost Boys, a group of teens at the time from Sudan who had come to the U.S. together to escape the government genocide. He did not know them and continued in his story saying, “I’ve been working at an auto parts store and I get sworn in for the U.S. National Guard on Monday. I want to go to school and they’ll pay for it.” “That’s great,” I said, “Good luck with that.” He was 32 years old. I had guessed 22. He seemed like a genuine nice guy and through my cramping and pain was glad I had met him. “So you going 6 with me?” he asked. All we had done was 2 ½ miles and my legs were throbbing telling me how dumb I was for pretending to be a real runner. “I think I’m going to just turn around and do 4,” I said. He seemed fine with that as we approached my turnaround point. “I’m Dol,” he said. “You’re what?” I asked. “My name,” he said, “My name is Dol.” “Doyle?” I asked. “No, Dol, D-O-L,” he replied. I introduced myself and said that I hoped we would meet again and perhaps run together...when I was in slightly better shape. I also mentioned my hurt knee again. “You mentioned that already,” he said. “Oh yeah,” I said, “pretending to have forgotten.” I told him good luck on his run and I turned around to head back to the car. I ran looking over my shoulder for another 50 yards and then walked the rest of the way back to the car feeling completely inadequate as a runner but feeling as if I had made a new friend. It was a good run and a good beginning to my day off. I hope to meet him again.
It’s amazing all the people that God brings into our lives. Some nice. Some mean and hateful. All meant to make a difference in this world. All here for a purpose. All cherished by God and priceless in His eyes. 6 billion people on this planet and God knows every single one. I’m reminded of a verse in Psalms in which the author writes, “For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well.” Psalm 139:13-14. Each individual, most of whom we will never meet, unless we meet randomly on a run at the Greenway, is part of our God’s plan for creation. He created us intricately and smiles as He places us on His earth giving us the power to be a part of the story and continue creating in His image just as He created each one of us. What an honor. What a responsibility. What a good God.
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