It Is Well With My Soul.

This past Sunday, we sang this hymn and the lyrics resonated with me-

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

It is well, with my soul,
It is well, with my soul,
It is well, it is well, with my soul.

Knowing the story behind this hymn made it even more touching.  It was written by Horatio Spafford, after two major traumas in his life.  The first was the great Chicago Fire of October 1871, which ruined him financially.  Shortly after, while crossing the Atlantic, all four of his daughters died in a collision with another ship.  He wrote this hymn several weeks later, as his own ship passed near the spot where his daughters died.  Despite his pain and grief and inability to understand the course of events, he was able to trust in God's grander plan for his life.

As I sang the chorus, I wondered about my own fate with Ironman, with my foot, and if I was to not compete, would I be able to trust in the bigger picture and confidently say, "It is well with my soul?"

Intuitively I knew the answer after Saturday's ride was abruptly cut short from the pain radiating in my right foot.  Even sporting my new Zoot kit wasn't enough to prevent me from calling it quits and turning around after 10 measly miles.  And the fact that I had effortlessly worked my way already through 1/2 bottle of Advil in the past few weeks had me worried.  At the end of the day, only I knew the severity of my pain, my inability to stand or balance on my right foot, and the agony I endured just from walking.

New Zoot kit before the boot kit.

But the whole draw and lure of Ironman is pushing past those limits and boundaries of pain, sometimes ignoring common sense, and discovering part of ourselves that we could never find without crawling first into that pain cave. (Sounds tempting, doesn't it?) 

So as I sat in the doctor's office anxiously awaiting the results of my X-rays, I had mixed emotions.  I wanted answers, a diagnosis, an objective reason for why I was in so much pain.  But another part of me wanted to sneak out of the office, ignoring everything, and continuing to press on.

Visual proof that my flat feet are more like flippers than feet.

And so through the mumbo jumbo of what the X-rays showed- the extra navicular bone I was aware I had (flat feet make a slow runner but a fast fishy...it's like swimming with two flippers!), I heard ramblings of a tendon on the verge of tearing and the next step if this doesn't heal back into place is surgery and you need to wear this boot during the day for a week so your outfits are gonna SUCK! (ok, maybe he didn't say that last part...but still...).  The only two words that really registered were the ones spoken in the most matter-of-fact, nonchalant way- NO IRONMAN.  I looked at him, searching for some drop of empathy. Nothing.  I held it together.  And that's when I got mad.  I put on my socks.  I grabbed my boot.  

Walking out of the office, I cried.  I felt the wind on my face, the sun, heard the noises of traffic, and it was this huge release of deep intense sadness as the tears streamed down my face.  I mourned the loss of a goal that I had been working towards since February, for the inability to see something I loved come to fruition, and to cross the line with the teammates that I'd been training with day in and day out. 

Oh, how injuries can humble us and bring us to our knees.

In the midst of all of this, I was reminded of the conversation that Coach and I had together on Sunday.  We talked about how there are seasons in life, in our friendships, and in sport- and how the only thing consistent about seasons is that they change.  This is just a season.  ONE season.  And how it is wiser to be smart about not doing one [big] race in a season versus risking permanent injury and thus potentially derailing future years of swimbikerun.

Sometimes it takes more discipline to sit it out and allow an injury to heal versus working through it, or so I am learning now.  And it is ironic how Hulk's nugget of advice is now taking on a whole new meaning...

Funny how it changes when you read this in terms of recovering.

Deep down in my heart, I wanted this season to end crossing a finish line on September 22nd.  But perhaps, like I've always said before, Ironman is really about the journey.  This season has borne fruit- I have met and trained alongside amazing athletes and friends, I've learned how to hydroplane swim, pedal my bike faster, and have learned to be more of a 'thinking athlete.'  

And so, even if my story didn't end with an uber-inspiring finish line race report, my hope is that it can be a candid reminder to do the best that you can with the body that you're given- to challenge and push it beyond what you think you can do, but overall, to respect it and allow it to heal when it needs to.  And for those completing 140.6 miles, when you see a Betty Designs kit on the race course, may it remind you to keep a PMA (Positive Mental Attitude), to keep your eyes open to the beauty around you, and to push a little harder when you see a shadow coming up on you...

This is just another season, physically and metaphorically speaking.  Finish lines are always  fun, but perhaps the bigger lesson this year for me was that sometimes there is no finish line-  that I should live every day without regret, and wholeheartedly.  In that sense, we are always arriving, day after day, recreating ourselves and discovering our pure potential in every moment.  Sometimes it doesn't make sense to me.  But sometimes in life not everything has to be fully understood.  Even through the tears and disappointment, everything really is ok, and I know the Truth- "It is well, it is well with my soul."