Run With Christ

Not every day feels like a great day.

And I’m learning that’s okay.

Because not every day needs to be great for it to be holy. That’s the difference between life with Christ, and life without Him. Without Christ, you think you need the next good day to survive. You hang your hope on it. You wait for it. You chase it.

But with Him—you start to understand that joy doesn’t depend on the day. It depends on who you’re walking with.

Before I found the Lord, I thought I just had to push through. Grind it out. Clench my teeth, survive the week, and maybe—just maybe—feel better on the weekend.

It felt like I was running a race that never ended. Not a fun one either. Not some light jog around the block. No, it felt like one of those races where you crawl through mud, scale walls, dunk your head in freezing water, and try not to get electrocuted.

Ever heard of a Tough Mudder? That’s the kind of race I’m talking about.

It’s this massive obstacle course designed to test your endurance, your grit, your pain tolerance. And most people who sign up for it? They don’t do it alone. They train with people. They rely on their team. They pull each other up when someone falls.

But life before Christ? It’s like running that kind of race—but with no team, no guide, no clue how long it’ll go on, and a thick fog covering the whole course so you can’t see a foot in front of your face. 

When I met my wife, something changed. At least I wasn’t running alone anymore.

We were in it together. Encouraging each other. Carrying the load side by side.

But we were still running without Christ.

We hadn’t yet met the One who already ran the race before us. The One who knows the route, clears the obstacles, and walks beside us through every dark stretch of trail.

At a certain point, you just accept that this is how it is. You settle. You tell yourself, “This is life. Just keep pushing.”

That’s what I told myself when I worked security at Toronto Pearson Airport.

I was stationed in Terminal 1, right near the international gates.

I was a Behavioral Recognition Specialist—my job was to help identify potential threats, especially IEDs. Improvised explosive devices, so bombs. The kind that go boom. We were trained to pick up on micro-expressions, movements, inconsistencies. It was serious work.

I thought it might lead to policing. I thought I was building something. A future. A career.

I worked sixteen-hour shifts. I barely slept.

The air always smelled like floor polish and burnt coffee. Not the good kind of coffee—the bitter, over-brewed 7-Eleven stuff that has sat on the burner a little too long.

There was this abandoned stairwell in one of the parking garages where I used to go when I couldn’t stay awake any longer. No one else ever went there.

I’d grab a 24 oz. cup of coffee on my break, walk it across the skybridge to the garage, and duck into this forgotten concrete stairwell—cold, echoey, and always faintly damp.

Ten hours into a sixteen-hour shift, I’d mix that coffee with cold water in another cup just to cool it fast, and then chug it while sitting on the stairs. It tasted like ash and metal, but I didn’t care. I called it a “coffee nap.” Down the caffeine, set a timer for fifteen minutes, and hope my body would reboot just long enough to survive the rest of the shift. Lying down, halfway on the landing, halfway on the stair. Not enough space to be found for a rest.

There was no time to reflect. No space to feel. Just repeated routine.

My thoughts weren’t poetic. They were tired.

“Why do I feel like I’m always behind?”
“Why does every step forward feel like it makes me less… me?”

I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t even sad. I was just hollow.

I told myself, “Just get through this week. Then maybe I’ll feel better.”

But that week turned into five years.

Five years of running the race alone.

What I didn’t know back then—what I see clearly now—is that I wasn’t tired from work.

I was tired from trying to be my own strength.

That’s what life without Christ is.

You might be running fast. You might be pushing hard. But you’re running blind. You’re running alone. And you don’t even know if you’re going the right way.

When I met Christ, I was bloody and exhausted at the end of myself.

But that’s when everything changed.

It’s funny. You run this race thinking you’ll feel relief when you reach the finish line. You think, “Finally—I’m done.”

But the moment you cross it with Christ, you realize…

That wasn’t the finish line at all.

It was the starting line of something new.

A new race. A better one.

Still uphill. Still hard. But now? You’re not running blind. You’re not running alone.

Now you’ve got a coach.

The best kind.

One who knows the course.

One who knows when to push you, and when to stop you to rest.

One who sees through the fog, marks out the checkpoints, and whispers just the right word when your legs are giving out.

And more than that—He’s not just beside you.

He’s already gone before you.

When my wife Kacy and I packed to leave Ontario, that verse came alive for me.

It was a cold February morning. The kind where you can see your breath even indoors, because the door’s been propped open all day for loading boxes.

The place smelled like cardboard and kitty litter. We were living with my mother at the time. She had a cat. Maverick. Cute but a bit smelly.

You could feel the tension in the air, not because we were arguing—just because the unknown was stretching out in front of us. Leaving without notice. Leaving to follow a calling.

Our cozy room wasn't cozy anymore. The walls were bare. We sat on the floor, surrounded by bags and boxes of what used to be our life.

I was closing up a plastic bin with all our pantry food, and Kacy was wrapping mugs in old socks. I could hear the house settling as we worked. There was silence between us—not a bad silence. Just the kind where both of you are asking the same question in your heads.

“Is this really it?”
“Are we actually doing this?”
“Are we sure?”
“Are we safe?”

I looked over at her, and out loud I said, “Are we really doing this? Moving across the country to a rental and a town we know nothing about?”

She nodded. Not with certainty. But with surrender.

We didn’t know what was waiting for us in Alberta. But we knew what couldn’t continue in Ontario.

That day felt like an ending. But we didn’t know—it was also the beginning.

Because as soon as we arrived in Alberta… it was like Christ had already gone before us.

The people. The peace. The provision. It wasn’t forced. It was there waiting.

We stepped out in fear.

But we landed in grace.

People welcomed us with joy.

Doors opened.

Provision came.

Peace settled.

We hadn’t forced it.

We hadn’t manufactured it.

We had followed Christ—and He had already cleared the path.

Maybe this is you, maybe you’re tired today.

Not just tired in your body. But in your soul.

You’ve been running a long time. Carrying weight that feels like it’ll never let up.

Let me tell you something I wish someone told me sooner:

Christ is not at the end waiting for you to figure it out.

He’s here. Right now. With you.

He’s the guide. The coach. The strength. The finish line. The beginning.

You don’t need to run harder.

You just need to let Him lead.

The race doesn’t end when you find Him, it begins.

But now—you run with purpose.

You run with peace.

You run with Christ.

Have you mistaken striving for purpose… when Christ was calling you to walk with Him instead?