Slow on Purpose

Cultivating a Maker’s Life is a column that explores creative living expressed in a whole life. Generous, creative living is not something that is confined to a studio or workspace.  It is conceived in the garden, gestates on hiking trails, nurtured in cinnamon-scented ovens, and matures at family dinner conversations.  Come with me while we explore all the stages of making and living.

“The Lord is not slow to fulfill His promise as some count slowness,

but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish,

but that all should reach repentance.”

—2 Peter 3.9 ESV

Look, Mom! These are just like yours! I could bike with you!” The voice belonged to a little pixie who looked to be about ten years old—slender and spunky and brimming with excitement about the possibilities of hot pink bike shorts that would allow her to join weekend rides with her mother.

“Oh, honey, no. You wouldn’t be able to keep up, and I have to hit my markers for my training.” 

This response was given distractedly as the mom continued to browse Dick’s Sporting Goods for leggings in her size. While I stood there, the girl’s mother never saw the utter deflation that occurred in the dreams of her daughter. A dying hot air balloon does not sag with such disappointment. 

I overheard this snippet of conversation in May of this year, and it was a jagged pebble that has lodged in my heart. I understand that it demonstrates a minute fraction of the relationship that mom and daughter have, and—I’m sure—if that mom and I sat down for coffee, there’s a whole lot more to it than that one moment. Still, I wish I had grabbed her hand and whispered hard, “This is the call—a little slower, a few less miles today, shorter steps, Mama. Slower, but for a really good reason. Slow, on purpose.”

I know why that conversation stung and stuck like glue. It’s because it could have been me a few years ago. I remember feeling as if I must get out the door and run, garden, build, or create lest I go stark raving mad. Five little ones under the age of seven years old had turned a relatively domesticated housewife slightly feral. When running a half-marathon began sounding pleasurable and relaxing, things may have been coming a bit unglued at home. I wish I could grab that mama’s hand, too, and tell her, “Slow down. It’ll be OK. This is the call.”

Unfortunately, it is often too late when we learn that there is infinitely more beauty in matching the stride of shorter legs.

Thankfully, grace isn’t just for the times we deserve it.

It’s not reserved for when we’ve performed perfectly and done everything right. Grace and forgiveness move into the places where we need them most: our failings. The words we wish we could un-say, the angry looks, the shameful behaviors—this is where grace truly flourishes.

This spring, my husband, Barritt, signed up for a 10K of his own free will. There was no coercion or manipulation on my part. 

“I’ll be running right there in August this year!” I said one day as we drove past the iconic Goodyear sign in downtown Akron on our way home. 

“That’s where your 10K is, right?” Barritt asked.

“Yup! I love that race!” I responded.

Two beats of silence filled the car.

“I’ll run that one with you.”

The silence was actually louder on the backside of this declaration of intent than it had been in the moments before. I looked around to see who could have spoken these words. For context, Barritt does not run. At all. He has never run a 5K or 1-mile fun run. He does not bike beside me while I run. Long walks are unusual occurrences. 

“What did you say?” I asked in utter disbelief.

“I’ll do that race. 10K is what? Four miles?” he asked.

“No, it’s 6.2 miles.” I was certain this miscalculation would cause him to step back his verbally binding commitment. 

“OK. What do I do to sign up?”

Later that same week, he registered for the 10K. It’s about four weeks from race day as I write this, and we’ve been getting up at 5 a.m. three days a week to get mileage in before Barritt cleans up for work and the heat becomes wildly uncomfortable. Every run, he tells me that I can go run at my own pace, and that I don’t have to stay with him. And every time, I ignore it. 

I’ve spent enough time chasing my own mile splits and achieving personal goals. Although, I’m not gonna lie, I still have things I hope to achieve.

Rather than a personal best race pace, I’m chasing a better relationship.

Anytime you sweat and suffer beside someone, it creates a fellowship that compares with nothing else. I think that’s probably part of the reason the church has been through so much travail.

I have much to repent of over the last 46 years of my life. There are more things I would like to undo than can ever be listed. I also know that I can’t walk backwards. Time is a steadfast soldier that will not be moved from its paces. Whether in parenting or the call of being Barritt’s helpmate, I have failed over and over again. This is the way of it. We make mistakes. Hopefully, we learn from them, but sometimes there is irreversible damage. 

Once upon a time, I thought every offense required verbal humility and a request for mercy. I still think there’s an important time and place to say “I was wrong. I’m sorry.” But I’ve also heard those words enough times to know that without changed behavior, they start to sound a little like Paul’s resounding gong or clanging cymbal. 

Repentance, after all, isn’t just an uttered platitude or a well-spoken phrase. It’s a change of life. This summer, at my house, repentance and forgiveness look a lot like lacing up my running shoes and going slower than I could. The sweaty miles are healing things that have been broken for a long, long time. And I know grace is running right beside us both—a little slow, but with purpose.

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The featured image, “Before Farewell,” is courtesy of Lancia E. Smith and is used with her glad permission for Cultivating.

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