There is a beautiful street at the end of our run, lined with tall trees. When we round the bend to this last stretch, it is praying time. There are no rituals to make God seem far away. Our hands can't clasp, we can't bow our heads, we can't even close our eyes. We are two friends talking to each other and to our God who is as close as our own breath. Our prayers spout and gasp, but they surround us like little lamps, warming our insides with freedom and energy.
There is no pretension. Our confessions, our worries, the stones of our souls, they float off like bubbles as we stomp down the road. We pray for our favorites- Her Jerrod, My Greg, and the four babies between us. We fight for them, with all the fervor our legs can muster. We can't help it, as we speak we run faster and faster, as if our effort is the measure of our passion.
When we finish, we are breathless. We have shown each other our ugliest, our best. Like two lovely warriors we walk along, sweaty and peaceful, ready for another day.