At mile 50 of a 100km race, I sat down on the side of the trail and couldn't get back up.
I was so dehydrated and nauseated I could barely walk. Just sat there, in the middle of nowhere, salt-crusted and broken, and quietly fell apart.
My legs had stopped cooperating miles ago. My stomach had staged a full revolt. By mile 50, the voice in my head, the one that's always looking for the exit, had gotten very, very loud.
Why are you doing this? Nobody's making you. You could stop. Nobody would blame you.
I've done three Ironmans and several ultras since then. And that voice still shows up. Every single time.
I've also heard it in ministry, in marriage, in business, and in prayer.
The Theology of the Long Middle
Ultrarunning has a concept called "the long middle." It's the stretch between the excitement of the start and the emotion of the finish. In a 50-miler, the long middle is roughly miles 15 through 45.
Nobody cheers during the long middle. There are no cameras. The aid stations are sparse. The novelty has worn off. The finish line is a mathematical concept, not a physical reality. You're just... running. Through discomfort. For hours.
Faith has a long middle too.
It's the years between the conversion experience and... well, whatever comes after. It's the Tuesday mornings when you pray and feel nothing. The decade of marriage where you're choosing love as a verb, not a feeling. The slow, unglamorous work of showing up.
Most people don't quit their faith during a crisis. They quit during the long middle. When nothing dramatic is happening. When it's just repetition, discipline, and the absence of fireworks.
Running taught me to expect that. To stop waiting for the high and start trusting the process.
Pain Is Not the Same as Damage
This is the single most important thing ultrarunning taught me, and it translates directly to faith.
At mile 30, everything hurts. Your feet, your legs, your back, your pride. Your body is screaming at you to stop.
But here's the thing experienced ultra runners know: pain is information, not a command. Your body is telling you this is hard. It is not telling you that you're broken.
Learning to distinguish between pain and actual injury is the skill that separates finishers from dropouts.
In faith, we have the same confusion. Suffering, doubt, spiritual dryness: these are painful. They feel like something is wrong. Like God has abandoned you. Like your faith is dying.
But pain is not the same as damage. Doubt is not the same as unbelief. Dryness is not the same as death. Sometimes the most faithful thing you can do is keep moving when it hurts.
The Psalms are full of this. "How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?" That's a runner at mile 35. Still running. Still talking to God. Even through the pain.
You Don't Have to Run Fast
The thing about ultramarathons is that they're not about speed. Most people aren't racing. They're surviving. The goal isn't to win. The goal is to finish.
I've been passed by 70-year-old grandmothers on trails. I've walked entire mountain sections. I've spent embarrassing amounts of time at aid stations eating quesadillas and contemplating my life choices.
None of that mattered at the finish line.
Faith isn't about spiritual speed either. It's not about who reads the most books, attends the most Bible studies, or has the most Instagram-worthy prayer life. It's about endurance. Showing up. Day after day. Year after year.
The writer of Hebrews says to "run with endurance the race set before us." Not run with speed. Not run with elegance. Endurance. Just don't stop.
The Finish Line Changes You
When I crossed the finish line of my first 50-miler, 12 hours and 47 minutes after I started, I didn't feel triumphant. I felt demolished. I sat in a camping chair, wrapped in a space blanket, eating a cold burrito, and my only thought was: I never have to do that again.
(I did it again six months later.)
But something had changed. Not during the race. After. In the days and weeks that followed, I carried something I hadn't had before. A quiet confidence. Not arrogance, just the knowledge that I could endure more than I thought.
That I could sit on a rock at mile 38, cry, and then get up and keep going.
That's what faith does too. Not in the dramatic moments. In the quiet aftermath. You look back at the long middle, the years of ordinary faithfulness, and you realize it shaped you into someone you couldn't have become any other way.
The Secret
Here's the secret nobody tells you about ultrarunning, and it's the same secret about faith:
The people who finish aren't the strongest, the fastest, or the most talented. They're the ones who refused to quit.
That's it. That's the whole strategy.
Keep going. Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Because the finish line isn't just an end point. It's a transformation.
"Let us not grow weary of doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Galatians 6:9
I've got that verse taped to my running shoes. And my desk. And my Bible.
Some days it's all I've got. And it's enough.