Physical Therapy for My Heart

I confess to being something of an adrenaline junkie. Not like you truly crazy humans who feel compelled to jump out of airplanes or ski down mountains with vertical slopes. No, I like living from high-to-high in my daily life.

Runners––like I used to be––get this kind of high after a great, demanding run. And I get that same kind of high whenever my plans come together better than I imagined, or when someone really embraces the point I’m trying to make. The things that rock my soul feed that dopamine or adrenaline or whatever combination of bodily chemicals that gives me a jolt of electric power.

If I’m not completely careful, I can slip into the trap of demanding that next high, over and over and over, without taking time to settle into the valleys that God ordains and allows.

Maybe this is part of the reason Jesus was tempted by Satan upon a high mountain. He could see it all, take it all in, bask in the adulation and the riches and the shiny faux-glory that mountain tops promise. Notice Satan didn’t take Jesus down to the level of the rest of the world, where work and hurt and death and sickness dwell, oh-so-present and in-your-face.

I’m struggling to persuade my mid-aged body that I can still exercise vigorously, like I did well into my fifties. Back when I could still run, a persistent goal was to run another half-marathon and beat my previous time.  Only trouble was that my body didn’t really want to cooperate. Ever since running the Richmond Half-Marathon in November 2008, I’ve been plagued with injuries. Five different doctors, four different physical therapists, endless tests and videotapings and batteries taped to wretchedly painful tendons were unexpectedly part of my routine for more than two years.In the past year, I’ve developed arthritis and feel the ache of an old hip injury suggesting that something drastic might be needed to stop the daily pain.

For a few years after the injuries began, I could still run, but barely. My shoes, the special insert in my right shoe, the terrain, the rhythm of my irritating non-lethal heart condition, my pre and post-run stretches all had to be perfect or else I was in pain. When everything worked, it felt like the old days. It was pure adrenaline, and pure joy.  Days like that, I literally felt like I could fly.

But rather than ruminate on my physical stresses and frustrations, I finally see what God has wanted me to see:  the detours that have resulted from a faulty body are just like the detours that result from my faulty mind. Oscar Wilde rather thoughtlessly said that a writer is someone who has taught his mind to misbehave. Mr. Wilde clearly didn’t know that no one has to teach the human mind––or the heart underneath––to misbehave.  It’s natural.

In my mind, in the world that only God can see, it’s a wildly misbehaving place-–no pun intended. I’m always in control. I never lose, I get what I want when I want it. My desires bend the will of others. My quips are always funny, my points always received as intended. I have the upper hand.

Any evil and wicked thoughts are justifiable, not horrible or immoral. Just the natural outflow of seeking that adrenaline rush in every moment and event and encounter.

But the mind tempered by–no, controlled by–Christ, is no longer its own boss. It’s the mind that’s okay with living in the valley, with seeking a different kind of rush. It’s the mind that says ‘not my will, but thine.’ And patiently waits for whatever God wills as a result.

Without Christ, I am utter weakness, subject to the whims of a mind and a heart capable of seeking only after the next thing that will make me high. With Christ, I am incomprehensibly strong, because it’s not I but Christ, leading me where He desires, to do His will, and fulfill me in the only true and lasting and righteous high ever created.

Today, I write from the valley. Tomorrow, who knows? Healthy or not, running or sitting, I acquiesce to His will, His mind, His way.  I don’t really know what’s good for me.