Below is an article I was asked to write for the SWAN (Seminary Wives Association Newsletter) this past month, and since I invested so much time in getting it just right, I thought I would share it with all of you. I'm sure you'd probably prefer to read the more animated posts detailing the boys' latest accomplishments or the excitement of our most recent change, but this post is definitely an illustration of the more difficult side of our journey through seminary. Just keeping it real ;)
When I was a freshmen in high school, I decided to run track. I didn't really have much interest in extra-curricular activities, but I did enjoy the rush of exerting every ounce of energy and emotion into racing down a 100-meter stretch of track at full speed. As I positioned myself in the starting block, my eyes focused intently on the finish line. I felt confident—excited even—knowing the end was in clear sight from the moment I entered the starting position; there were no ominous turns, daunting hurdles or arduous obstacles standing in my way—just a straight shot to victory!
A couple weeks into the season, my coach suggested I try the 400-meter dash, stating the breadth of my stride would give me an advantage. I really wasn't familiar with the dynamic of the 400-meter dash, but I soon learned that they call it the 400-meter "dash", because you are supposed to sprint the entire distance around the track. As I considered the proposition, I naively deduced that running a greater distance would simply require a greater demand of my physical ability. So, if I could handle a 100-meter stretch, what's a couple more?
Well, finishing my first 400-meter race proved to be a much greater challenge of stamina than I had expected. After running myself ragged in the first three hundred meters, I turned the last corner of the track wondering how my legs could possibly carry me another foot, let alone another 100 meters. I was running on empty, my reserves were exhausted, yet somehow—through unexplainable means—I found myself on the other side of the finish line.
[Enter perseverance.]
Today, as I stare across our humble vicarage home, surrounded by borrowed goods and neighbors whom I've only just met, I feel a strangely similar strain on my endurance. Less than three years ago, my husband acknowledged his call to be a pastor and we essentially hit the ground running. In a matter of months, we sold our new home and left behind a plethora of family roots and long-time friends (more than 850 miles behind)—as well as the security of a two-income household in which to raise our two young boys.
At that point, not knowing much about the culture of seminary or life in the ministry, I immediately adapted the mindset that we were embarking on a "new adventure" in order to submerge myself in optimism. That ambitious feeling of adventure has long since faded amongst the ambiguity of income, the stress of ever-changing social circles and the transience of a place to call home. Yet, by some unfathomable stretch of a miracle, we've found ourselves surviving in this third leg of the race, with just one more year of pandemonium ahead.
I wish I could say my wealth of experience has provided some resounding words of encouragement to thrive in this adventure we call seminary, but the thing about perseverance is that it isn't the straight shot to victory. It can only come through steadfastness despite difficulty or delay in achievement. We must approach each ominous turn with tenacity, tackle every daunting hurdle with hope and continue to pray when the obstacles seem to arduous to overcome.
Someone once told me that when they are feeling overwhelmed with worry, they focus on their blessings. So today, I simply thank God for my faith, my loving family, an abundance of friends and also for our health. And tomorrow, regardless of the day's events, I'll do it all over again.
Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial because, having stood the test, that person will receive the crown of life that the Lord has promised to those who love him.
- James 1:12
