Why I’d Do It All Again
This past weekend, I did something dumb
Several months ago, my dad proposed that we sign up for a race. This was nothing new for us, but he went on to explain that this would be a Ragnar Race. I had never heard of such a thing, so as I often do, I conducted a criminally negligible amount of research and promptly agreed. Before long, we’d roped in six more friends, and our team was set.
For context, Ragnar is a team trail relay race where eight people take turns running loops through the woods over a 24+ hour span. You camp out at the race site in between your runs, and everyone runs three legs at different times of day—at least one of which is in the dark. I was incredibly excited about the camping part because I am a huge fan of both bananas and granola, and I’ve heard that’s what people who camp like to eat. Oh! And I convinced my dad to bring a cooler full of ham!
So anyways, upon our arrival at the event, my friend and I—fueled by what I can only describe as grossly misguided arrogance—decided we would set up our campsite as far away as possible from where the race was actually happening, assuming we could handle walking that far much better than the team who had set up half a mile closer than us and brought a squat rack to put in their tent?!
I am speed
My first leg took place during the day, and—shockingly—I felt great. The trail was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and I had just enough adrenaline (and ham) in my system to convince myself I could maybe do this forever (spoiler: I could not). I found a rhythm, passed a few people, and even had enough in the tank to throw out a couple of friendly “good jobs” as I ran by, which, between me and you, may or may not have been a covert way for me to express the fleeting sense of superiority I felt in that moment.
By the time I reached the finish line, I was a rather happy boy. I spent the next few hours doing my favorite things—singing the scooby-doo theme song and procrastinating—which came back to haunt me when the time came for me to run the second leg, and I was both unprepared and out of breath.
Maybe I am scared of the dark
The race's second leg was my night run, and for some reason, I felt strangely good again. Sure, it was pitch black, the trees around me insisted on making the most terrifying noises, and the only thing keeping me from falling off the edge of a cliff was a headlamp and my questionable sense of balance. But oddly, I felt... at peace.
Or at least I did for about 10 minutes. At this point, I received a text from my friend that read: “Don’t get eaten by a bear.” I had not even considered this a possibility, but I was now convinced that a Grady vs Bear matchup was imminent. Haters may say it was the sleep deprivation, but I liked my chances. I couldn’t stop thinking about how impressive it would be if I were able to say I wrestled a bear in the middle of the night. Fortunately for the bears, they stayed away.
Also… the headlamp itself was rather annoying, flickering now and then, threatening to go out. I kept smacking it on my forehead, hoping to coax it into doing its job (the light, not my head). But as I continued to run, I realized that my only choice was to keep going and trust that it wouldn’t go out, which might have been worse than a bear encounter.
Occasionally, I would see other runners’ headlamps bobbing in the distance. After convincing myself that they were in fact runners and not participants in some sort of cult meeting, seeing these other lights gave me a sense of security—a shared sign that we were all on the same track, even if we couldn’t see each other. There was something unspoken but encouraging about that. A random group of people united only by the fact that they were running in the dark, relying on the same little beam to guide us forward.
A series of unfortunate events
By the time my third leg rolled around, the sun was back, but I, however, was not. This last run being a struggle shouldn’t have been a surprise as this was my third run in 18 hours, and I had not slept at all, but believe it or not, I was entirely taken aback.
Now, if my first leg was energizing and my second was serene, the third was a slow descent into madness. It started off okay, I guess, though “okay” may be a stretch, but it certainly began much better than it ended. I shuffled into the trail, optimistic that my body would remember what to do. It did not. About half a mile in, everything started to hurt. Not in a cute, “ooh I’m sore” kind of way. In a “my organs are shutting down and I might be actively dying” kind of way.
Somewhere in the middle of the trail, everything started to go sideways, including me. My vision blurred, the trees swayed in ways they definitely shouldn’t have, and I had the distinct sense that I might pass out mid-stride. It wasn’t a dramatic moment—no cinematic fall or slow-motion collapse—just embarrassing helplessness. I realized if I didn’t stop, my body was going to make that decision for me.
So I veered off to the side and grabbed onto a tree like it was the last stable thing in the universe. I sank down, dizzy and unsure whether I was going to throw up, pass out, or both. It wasn’t pain so much as it was pure depletion—like my body had quietly decided it was done and forgot to notify me. I shut my eyes and sat in the dirt, hoping the world would steady itself.
Eventually, someone came by and offered me water. I don’t remember what they looked like or if I said thank you, but I do remember standing up and deciding to keep moving. And from that point on, it wasn’t a run so much as a negotiation with gravity. Normally, I’d tell myself that all I needed was a little more willpower, or tell myself that just maybe Ed Sheeran would be waiting for me at the finish line if I got done fast enough, but that didn’t seem to work. Every step hurt worse than the day I found out Abe Lincoln had died, and the worst part was, it never let up. I kept expecting that second wind to show up and carry me through the end, but nope. It was just me, dragging my awkward limbs forward because, at this point, there was really no other choice.
Why I’d Do It All Again
At some point in the race, you start to wonder why you signed up for this in the first place. There’s nothing glamorous about the exhaustion, the aching muscles, and the struggle to keep moving. Yet, somehow, when those moments are over, there’s this sense of accomplishment that makes it feel worth it. It’s not because the race was easy, but because you kept going. That’s kind of how it feels following Jesus, too.
As I have thought back about my three legs of the race, I couldn’t help but draw parallels to what it’s like to walk with Jesus. The Bible talks over and over again about how following Jesus requires discipline, focus, and perseverance. It’s not about how we start, but about how we finish—how we press on when it gets tough, how we continue even when every step feels like a struggle.
When Life Feels Easy
The first leg of the race felt effortless. I was energized, confident, and full of zeal. This part of the race reminded me of the moments of my journey with Jesus when following Him feels natural, when the path is clear, and when everything falls into place. But I was also reminded of how easy it is to slip into self-reliance when things feel smooth. I can easily start thinking that it’s my strength, my determination, or my abilities that are making everything work.
While it’s easy to coast when things are good, we have to be careful not to let our pride or self-sufficiency creep in. Following Jesus means leaning on Him—not just in the difficult times, but also in the good ones, recognizing that any strength we have is ultimately His.
When It’s Hard to See
The second leg of the race was when things got real. Running in the dark with only a flickering headlamp to guide me, I was forced to trust something beyond myself. I couldn’t see the way ahead clearly, but I had no choice but to keep moving, trusting that light would show up when I needed it. And that’s exactly what faith is like: trusting in something that we can’t always see but know is there. In those moments when we feel in the dark, God is the one who lights the way, and often, He’s all we’ve got.
It’s easy to forget, but there’s incredible freedom in trusting God as the light. We don’t have to rely on our own strength, our own understanding, or our own plans. Sometimes, all we can do is keep moving forward, trusting that His light will be enough to guide us through the darkness. And when we look around, we realize we’re not alone. In the darkest moments, there’s a community of believers running the same race, trusting in that same light.
When You Think You Can’t Go On
By the time I reached the third leg, my body was done. It wasn’t just tired; it was actively rejecting me. This leg was the hardest by far, and at this point, there was no autopilot left. There was no relying on the adrenaline of the first run or the calm of the second leg. This was the race where I had to choose to keep going, even though every step felt like I was crawling through mud.
Sometimes following Jesus isn’t glamorous, and it’s certainly not always easy. There are moments in our faith when it feels like we’re walking through the wilderness, where it feels like every step is harder than the last. And yet, that’s where we find the real growth. Just because something is hard doesn’t mean it’s not worthwhile. Paul talks about perseverance in Romans 5, reminding us, "We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.”
Even though the struggle feels endless, there is so much joy to be found in realizing that Jesus himself is the prize, and He is with us through it all. When we press on through the hard times, that’s when we see God’s faithfulness more clearly—when we realize that He’s been with us all along, even when we couldn’t feel Him.
There are moments in life when everything flows, when the path feels clear, and it feels like you could keep going forever. But then, there are moments when every step is a struggle—when it’s dark, when you don’t feel like you have the strength to keep going, and when nothing feels easy. What I’ve learned in my short time on this earth is that all of these seasons are inevitable. But the beauty of following Jesus is that, in all of those times, it's still worth it. It’s not about how strong we are, or how well we can keep up the pace. It’s about trusting in God’s strength when our own runs out.
Sometimes, it’s not until we hit that wall that we realize how much we rely on God’s grace and mercy. And it’s not because the race was easy, or because we feel invincible in the process. It’s because even when it’s hard, God is right there with us, giving us the strength to keep moving.
I’ve been asked several times if I would run that race again, and the answer is yes, but when people ask me why, I honestly don’t have a good answer. But despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the moments I didn’t think I could go on, I would. And I think that’s part of what following Jesus is all about—the willingness to keep going even when it’s hard. Not because we know exactly why or because it’s easy, but because, somehow, we trust that it’s worth it in the end.
I guess if I signed up for this kind of race again, I would assume it would be worth it once more. Maybe that’s too optimistic. Maybe that’s even naive. But maybe that kind of naive optimism is what God wants from us. To the outside world, it might look like a reckless or blind hope. It might even seem foolish. But what if that’s just the kind of childlike faith God is looking for—the kind that doesn’t rely on our own understanding or strength, but simply trusts that He’s good, even when the road ahead is uncertain or difficult. It’s not about seeing the end from the beginning or having everything figured out. It’s about keeping the faith, step by step, knowing that He’ll be with us, even in the hardest moments. And so, just like I’d run the race again despite how tough it was, I can assure you continuing to run after Jesus as hard as you possibly can, and trusting that He’s good no matter how hard life gets, will always be worth it.