Skip to main content

Don’t Run the Race Alone

https://drive.google.com/uc?export=view&id=1XxRsBRxvb3DjdnJkxlHc3EWWPase_ywz

Don’t run the race alone.

.

Ready…set…go! 

Gun pop! 

.

Keep running, don’t stop! 

.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 2 Timothy 4:7

.

The Apostle Paul was a man laced up with endurance and perseverance. He never stopped running due to water bottles filled with faith. 

.

While running his race, he never forgot to grab  side-liners by their arms with his letters of encouragement. He lifted up the lost, and handed them sneakers to run their race with boldness. 

Are we also including others in our racing lane? Grab others by their arms, and witness while running together. 

.

Are we placing sneakers before disoriented souls, so they can find God easily? Grab the hands of weary substitutes, and put them on the track to Heaven. 

.

Are we helping tie the shoe laces of the lost with the love of God? Tie the laces tightly, so fellow runners can eventually sprint with spiritual confidence in their own lane.

Is our lane open to others that have loosened their shoe laces and stumbled? Offer steady reassurance by letting the drained rest upon your shoulders. 

.

Are we sharing living water in a cup and handing it to the lost in the bleachers? 

.

Don’t run the race alone. Don’t forget to help others onto the track of Heaven bound glory. Make sure when you look to the left and right of you, that there are other racers fighting the good fight. 

.

Ready, set, let’s go! 

.

Gun pop!

.

To Heaven! Don’t stop. 

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

"Memory Day" Memories

“Memory Day” Memories   August 11 th , 2008 will always be etched in my mind.   Why? Do you ask?   That was the day the leading man in my life went home, my dad, Bob J. O’Banion.   He was my encourager, support system, teacher, boulder, and most importantly, a godly leader.   When you needed a hand, both of his calloused hands were there to hug, shake, and give you a pat on the back.   When you needed Christian advice, his wisdom traveled from his can line to yours.   With the can pressed against your ear, you’d hear, “God is the way, the truth, and the light.”   He was a true definition of a man, a sovereign man.   Integrity made him a humble guide through the Blueridge Mountains, the dry desert, and beyond.   Love lined his face with deep canyon wrinkles.   He sought and dug ditches to provide.   The rooftop was his “day home”.   Sun-tanned skin branded him a “sweat by the brow” toiler.   Family sto...

Seasonal Change

The loss of my dad still hurts, especially when seasons change.  . For those who have lost a loved one, the aching still seems to pulsate through the cracks left upon our hearts.  . Seasonal change can breeze in bronzes of bereavement. It can fall with ambers of aches and molasses colored missing.  . For me, this is true about Autumn. The leaves change once again, and my dad’s memory wafts o’er red-roofed wishing wells. The shallow water collects pennies of “wish you were here” under Birch trees.  . Seasons and holidays blow in memories that patina the past.  . Those who have lost a parent, we think upon childhood memoirs. Instances where we held our mom or dad’s hands, while strolling under amber stained glass etched with maple leaves.  . I think upon harvest memories where the jack-o-lanterns flow, and the crockpot chili steams in bowls.  . My dad walks behind my brother and I as we prance towards candy. In seasonal memory “trick-or-treats” bounce of...

Climb the Rope of Hope

  I have to admit, I’m feeling a dew drop of sadness today. I was supposed to go to a RV show with friends, but decided to stay home. Why did I stay home? I miss my dad. It’s been almost 12 years and I still ache for him. I miss his love and his godly guidance (I’m crying as I write this post). I couldn’t go trudge in and out of memories. I couldn’t go up and down steps of the past. My heart couldn’t bear the weight of camper-sized flashbacks.  When I was growing up, we were a band of gypsies, as my dad called us. We traveled the highway and byways of America in our RV. We’d laugh and play games. We’d have conversations about God’s beauty. We’d bond as a family, as a God braided clan. That bond has made me grieve a hard grief. That closeness clamors my heart with the dad category of love. I don’t grieve on a daily basis anymore. The wounds of loss have healed. The scar is not as prevalent. But, the missing still resides. The missing still dews rosy teardrops.  ...