The Band-Aid that stuck around longer

You can learn a lot from a Band-Aid.

I ran a half marathon this morning, and I had a Tinkerbell Band-Aid on my leg where I cut myself shaving yesterday. (Yes, I still manage to nick myself almost every single time.) I've run with Band-Aids on my legs before (obviously, if I cut myself so often), so I didn't really think much of it.

Until about mile 11 or so.

It was at this point that Tinkerbell decided it was time to try flying. The Band-Aid came loose on one side and started flapping. I didn't really care that I was losing a Band-Aid (I mean, I love Tink and all, but we really weren't that close), but do you know how annoying a flapping Band-Aid is during a race, especially when it's getting pretty hot out there, and you are only about two miles from the finish? If you don't, please just take my word for it. It's VERY annoying.

Sure, I could have just reached down and torn it completely off, but that would just involve too much work. I'm too lazy and just really didn't feel like extending my arm that far down. So I just tried to ignore it and focus on the fact that my pace was really starting to suck, and I needed to pick it up.

Sure enough, I forgot about the Band-Aid altogether. What I didn't even notice was the strangeness that occurred.

Now that's perseverance.

After the race, while I was sitting on a curb, my friend asked me how that Band-Aid had managed to stay on my leg during the race and not come off because of sweat. I looked down and noticed that the Band-Aid was back in perfect position and didn't appear as if it had ever been flapping away in the wind. It was rather peculiar, actually, and I have no idea how it returned to that state, seeing as how I had not touched it and had really just assumed it flew all the way off toward the end of the race.

It's amazing what a Band-Aid can teach us.

There are certainly going to be times in life where we start flapping away, so to speak, and we feel as if we are on the verge of losing grip and failing. But there is always going to be that hope—no matter how slight—that can keep us hanging on and get us back on solid feet. Somehow and some way, miraculously, we can fall perfectly into place where we should be, just like my Tinkerbell Band-Aid.

I'm incredibly thankful for the simple things that God gives us in life—like Band-Aids that just won't give up the fight.

When satellite reception isn't an option

I prefer not to rely on my mental math while running.

For the past week, I have been Garmin-less, and it's been weird. I first got this majestic watch a little more than a year ago, and my runs have pretty much been dictated by pace and distance. I usually try to go on one "watch-free" run per week (where I still wear it but don't actually use it), but other than that I use it as a constant to make sure that I'm hitting the right mile splits and getting in the correct mileage. I fell in love with it from day one. I mean, I wear it all the time, even when I'm not running.

Then disaster struck.

One dark and stormy morning (actually, the skies were pretty clear, but I'm speaking more metaphorically—you know, the storms of life), after I finished my run, the band broke. With it went a small little piece of my heart. (If you've read previous posts, you might have learned that I don't like change much, and I really have issues when things I like break.)

I like to keep things classy.

I told myself not to panic, because I knew this had happened to people before, and I could simply order a new band from Garmin. In the meantime, I would just use the best solution possible to hold it together: hot pink duct tape.

I called Garmin, and they sent me a new band for free (holla!), but, sadly, this is not where we have a happily-ever-after moment. A little piece had broken off the actual watch and was stuck in the band, so I was unable to attach the new band to the watch.

Insert disappointed frown and a word I often say when things go badly: shast.

I was back on the phone with Garmin when they opened the next morning. The nice lady on the line told me I could mail in my broken treasure, and Garmin would send me a new one for free, even though I was just outside of my warranty. LOVE.

I had become so desperate that I paid extra and overnighted that sucker via FedEx.

However, I still hadn't received it on Friday, and I knew my Sunday long run would be done with my backup Timex. Ugh. I ran with my dear friend Jen, and at first I was trying to do math in my head (like my days racing pre-Garmin) whenever I heard her watch beep at each mile, but it wasn't long before I was just asking her our pace at each mile. That poor gal—but she is so sweet and of course just started telling me each mile, and I didn't even have to ask. Needless to say, Jen is awesome.

But, I have wonderful news: my Garmin arrived today! My life of non-mystery paces can return to normalcy.

I must say, it was definitely odd being in such a state of not knowing. What's even more peculiar, however, is that this is how most of life is: unknown. We don't know our pace or distance or where we are going without something—rather, someone—there to tell us and guide us. Sure, I rely on my Garmin to keep me level and primed for success in my running, but I rely on God to do the same in my life.

Without my Garmin, running was still possible, but there was still so much missing. I think God is like a life Garmin: He lights the way (think bezel and backlight), and He will always be there for you, because He wants good things for you.

But God is so much better than Garmins—He will never have a dead battery, He's indestructible, and hot pink duct tape won't be necessary.