Spiritual Formation | 4/6/2026 1:51:00 PM

Written by: Daniel Winkelman

Back in February, I found myself asking, "Is running still for me?" Having just run the slowest race of my college career, it was a pretty embarrassing experience. I felt I had done everything I could to prepare, so it wasn't just a bad day. But after beating myself up for it, I resolved that I was simply not that fit. I had done the best I could on that day, and that was that. The reality was, up to that point, I had only been running for about 8 weeks. In December, I started at a meager 5-mile week and, since then, had only gotten up to about a 50-mile week. (I could hardly call it "training" considering I was only at about 60% of the volume I had done in the fall–training that ended once I formed a stress injury in my right femur). So here I was, having a crisis after running the slowest race of my college career. But at least I was healthy.

College running has been a lot tougher than I thought it would be. Struggle has often been the word. I've faced two season-ending injuries, and there always seems to be some kind of pain to manage. I'm definitely not alone; struggle is common. All of my teammates, we face it together. What's been hardest for me has been failing to live up to the high expectations I have for myself, and never being able to reach where I once was.

Entering college, I performed relatively well as a freshman. I was able to travel and experience success, which was all a great blessing from the Lord. But since then, things have become rather grim. To look at all the wisdom I've gained, to notice all the small things I've been doing right, to look at all the ways I've been taking better care of my body, and yet, here I am, failing to come even close to where I once was.
It's a constant feeling of chasing a version of myself I used to be: always trying to catch up after injury, always feeling behind my old training group, always trying to run the times I used to run. It's hard when the Lord has given you a gift and blessed you in a specific sphere for so many years, allowing you to succeed and providing a way to display those talents on a Division 1 stage, yet feeling like nothing has come of it. I have everything I could've wanted, and for some reason, nothing has worked out as I expected. Did I do something wrong? Have I squandered the gift?

I've struggled with the Lord in this a lot, but I've always hung onto hope. I've always trusted that the Lord has better days for me ahead. After my poor race performance back in February, I felt like a boxer who had gone round after round getting pummeled to the ground, but always rising again. In my head, I held a fantasy of inspiration each time I stood back up to face my opponent. But this time, when I got back up to approach him, something different happened. After throwing a couple punches, he pulled out a baseball bat and bashed my bones in.

Last week I lined up for my first outdoor race of the season: the 3000m steeplechase. It was my first time in uniform since September and my first travel trip in almost a year. After just one lap into the race, I approached the water pit and vaulted up over the barrier. I landed as I would have on any other jump. But this time, my right fibula gave in, snapping twice, clean through the bone. Meet staff sprinted over to me and lifted me into a gator, racing me off to a medical area. Shortly after, I was driven to the ER where X-rays confirmed the breaks in my fibula.

It's ironic how we as believers are called to "run the race to the finish", because I think in reality, we can't really run at all. If it were up to us, we would stay down on the track, broken. But instead, Jesus chooses to intervene and pick us up off the ground, to carry us for the race and across the finish line.

What I think really happened that night was Jesus bent down and picked my limp body up off the track, and that he's been carrying me each day since.

Three days earlier, at our all-school chapel, Tim Timmons brought a message. He picked up his guitar and approached the microphone to sing a song he had co-written called Even If. The song already held significance to me from the recent months of my injury rehab. I would listen to hang onto hope. Now here it was, being sung to me, three days before I would break my leg. A sign of the Lord's mercy.
"I know You're able / And I know You can / Save through the fire / With Your mighty hand / But even if You don't / My hope is You alone I know the sorrow / And I know the hurt / Would all go away / If You'd just say the word / But even if You don't / My hope is You alone."

I see the Lord's mercy working in so many ways. What are the chances that song was back in my heart? Why did I take 500mg of pain medicine right before the race that night, something I had never done before? How was I able to laugh with my trainer in the ER all those hours of the night? Who else would be able to carry the physical and emotional burdens of an event like this so that I could walk so lightly? Only Jesus. The physical pain, the emotional distress, and disappointment--he's carrying it for me now as he carried it for me on the cross.

I don't know what the future holds for me in running. I've got a metal rod in my leg and a long road ahead. But what I do know is that Jesus is carrying me now, and he will carry me across the finish line.