It was Memorial Day and my schedule had taken me to the beautiful Colorado Rockies for a week of camp with teenagers. I had arrived on Friday and spoken several times over the weekend to the staff and counselors and was ready for a great week. I awoke early on Monday morning and after a good time with the Lord, the light of a new day was sneaking through the window of my room. It was time for my morning jog!

It was a cool Rocky Mountain morning as I stepped outside. A thin layer of frost covered the ground and that crisp, cool air quickly filled my lungs. I was ready—three light layers of clothing, my running shoes, and a ball cap. It was a steady climb out the driveway to the camp, covering a mile and a half. I had tackled this driveway the two previous days, and as I hit the main road, I felt great! This was one of those days when I knew I had more than my usual five miles in me.

About seven or eight times a year, I try to run for two hours. Those wonderfully blessed Kenyans, who always seem to win our Boston Marathon, may be able to run “farther” than me, but at least I can run for as “long” as they can! As I hit my stride, I decided this was going to be one of those two hour runs. Like I said, I had done it before—the only problem was—I had never attempted it at 8,600 feet above sea level!

The first hour was an absolute joy. Not a person in sight. No cars, no noise, no smog—just the sound of the woodpeckers and an occasional spotting of a deer loping off into the woods. It was a holiday! I was 1,000 miles from my office, I was not scheduled to preach until nine o’clock that night, and I was privileged to be out enjoying some of God’s most beautiful creation anywhere. Read more »