The Finish Line

“I’ll see to at the finish line.”

The words stirred me in a place so deep I practically gasped. The young girl was giving the final meditation before the assembled group ran a marathon and was speaking of the conclusion of our up-coming race, but, for me, her final sentence spoke of a different race, and different location.

Maybe it was my nerves about running such a distance, my more reflective stage in life, or the fact that the group was made up of religious souls, but the power of her words haunts me still. 

What if there is a place? What if there is a finish line? What if one day we will reach that place and feel the utter joy of completion? Is there a moment when we look down the way and see our journey’s end, and, like the marathon, see people holding signs and cheering ? Are there familiar faces in the crowd? . . . A grandparent? . . . Father or mother? . . . Beloved friend or mentor? . . . Child? . . . Are they there, waiting for us, welcoming us home?

If such a place exists, if ever I were to experience such a moment, “heaven” would be the only word for it. Such a place or moment would be enough to put my daily struggles in perspective, lift the significance of my present race, and give my heart it’s deepest hope.

God has never spoken to me in a distinct, clear voice, at least not in a voice or moment that has been utterly recognizable. Instead, I seem to hear things in whispers, and see them out of the corner of my eye.  Whether through a particularly beautiful place, intimate moment with a child, or through a comment made by a young girl standing in front of a bunch of nervous runners. Whispers one and all, fingers pointing to something I can only fathom in small bits and pieces, but they’re enough to get me to lace up my shoes once again, with renewed enthusiasm, profound gratitude, and, most of all, hope