Dear God, when Corona is all over, I promise never to hate running again

Yeah, yeah. Famous last words. When I was growing up, I remember making a similar promise to God.

My mom tripped over a tree stump in the garden and dislocated her elbow. Crying in absolute agony, my Dad rushed her to the hospital to have it reset.

Seeing my mom writhing in pain was frightening. The hours waiting for her to return from the hospital dragged on and as night fell, I remember lying in the dark in my bed praying.

I prayed so hard. I promised to stop being a brat of a teenager. I promised to never lie again. I made a pact with God that if He took my mom’s pain away and brought her back home, I’d do whatever it took to be the perfect daughter. (Well, let’s just say I did my best).

I miss running. I miss the races. I miss track. I miss my running coach and all the other runners. I miss the freedom of heading out the door and choosing from a variety of running routes to run around my home.

I feel like that awkward teenage girl, pleading with God to heal the world so that I can go run.

Because I only realise now that when it’s taken away from me, that I really don’t hate running, I love it.

So God, this is my promise.