Her Newly-discovered Self

Charles A. Coonradt

A few years ago, my friend Sue had some fairly serious health problems. Her husband, Dennis, had constantly hoped her health would improve, but he did not really believe it ever would.

One day they drew up a "wish list". One of Sue's wishes was to run in a marathon. Given her physical limitations, Dennis thought her goal was completely unrealistic, but Sue became committed to it. She began by running very slowly in the neighborhood where they lived. Every day she ran just a little farther than she had the day before. Soon she was running a mile. Then three. Then five. I'll let Dennis tell the rest of the story in his own words:

I remember Sue telling me something she had learned: We can change ourselves for the better. I knew Sue believed it—she had registered to run in the St. George Marathon in southern Utah.

I drove to St. George, Utah, parked our van near the finish line and waited for Sue to come in. The rain was steady and the wind was cold. The marathon had started over five hours ago. The fast and strong competitors had finished long ago, and runners were becoming more and more sparse.

I drove up the race route. There were still no runners in view after I drove almost two miles. Then I went around a bend in the road and spotted a small group running up ahead. As I approached, I could see Sue in the company of three others. They were smiling and talking as they ran. I pulled off and called, "Are you okay?"

"Oh, yes!" Sue said, panting only mildly. Her new friends smiled at me.

"How far to the finish line?" one of them asked.

"Only a couple of miles," I said.

I noticed that two of the runners were limping. I wanted to say to them that they had run a good race and offer them a ride in, but I could see the resolve in their eyes. I turned the van around and followed from a distance, watching for one or all of them to fall. They had been running for over five and a half hours! I sped around them and up to within a mile of the finish and waited.

As Sue came into view again, I could see her begin to struggle. Her pace slowed and her legs looked as if they did not want to work any longer. Somehow, she kept moving, almost staggering.

The small group was becoming more spread out. Only a woman in her twenties was near Sue. It was obvious that they had become friends during the race. I was caught up in the scene and began running along with them. After a hundred yards or so I tried to speak, to offer some great words of wisdom and motivation, but my words and my breath failed.

The finish line came into sight. I felt that the real winners were just now coming in. I could see that Sue was in agony—but she had dreamed about this day for two years and she would not be denied. She knew she would finish, and this knowledge allowed her to confidently—even happily—pick up her pace the last hundred yards to the finish line.

Few people were left to congratulate my wife. She had run a smart race, stopping to stretch regularly, drinking plenty of water at the various water stops, and pacing herself well. She had been the leader of a small group of less-experienced runners. She had inspired and encouraged most of them with her words of confidence and assurance. They openly praised and embraced her as we rejoiced in the park.

"She made us believe we could do it," her new friend said.

"She described so vividly how it would be to finish that I knew I could do it," another said.

The rain had quit, and we walked and talked in the park. I looked at Sue. She was carrying herself differently. Her head was more erect. Her shoulders were squared. Her walk, even though she was limping, had a new confidence. Her voice held a new, quiet dignity. She truly liked her newly-discovered self. So did I.