Texas is famous for its blue northers. When the ‘gate’ is left open in the panhandle, temperatures can drop from 85 to 35 degrees throughout much of the state in a matter of hours. I awoke in Fort Worth several years ago to be greeted by such a cold, gray, norther-spawned morning. I had stayed the night at the home of my running buddy Doug and family, in order to train with him for our mutual goal, the Houston marathon.

Training for Houston was vital. Doug and I had run our first marathon together in Las Vegas a couple of years before, and both of us thought we would die before finishing. We started too fast, and hit the wall at the twenty-mile mark. Our muscles cramped, making each step a gigantic, excruciatingly painful effort of the will. Thousands of reasons to quit bombarded our brains, and like so many runners who do not pace themselves, properly, we nearly became casualties along the route.

 We both completed Las Vegas that year, but it took every shred of energy and determination we had to make it across the finish line. We wanted to do better in Houston. I was particularly eager to do well there because a loss of body fluids had forced me out of the With Rock Marathon in Dallas earlier that same year.

At 5:00 a.m. Fort Worth time, Doug, rolled me out of bed and explained the training course we would run today. We set off through the streets of the city, working hard to get warm. Keeping comfortable was tough, since temperatures had dropped to the low thirties and the wind was gusting at twenty miles per hour. My wind suit, sock, gloves, and hat all seemed pitifully inadequate against the bitter, piercing chill.

Then it happened. We came to Fort Worth’s version of Heartbreak Hill. Suddenly in front of us seemed to reach for the stars. Quadriceps screaming, I grunted and groaned, straining to make it uphill. About halfway up, the wind blowing fiercely in my face, I heard Doug’s cheerful (yes, cheerful) voice: “Don! When you reach the top, the rest of the way will be a piece of cake!”

I dug a little deeper, sucked it up, and kept going. At the crest of the hill, the sun peeked over the horizon. The day’s first warming rays exploded into visibility, showering the distance with glowing pinks and yellows. I cannot describe the joy and well-being felt at a moment like that – the wonder of a brand-new day after the struggle of a long, steep, rugged ascent. Dawn breaks as an obvious gift of the Lord, a twenty-four hour challenge in which there are more mountains to climb, more work to be done, a new race to be run.

The Christian life is like that. It is running uphill into the wind. Every step of progress is costly. Advancing and taking new territory involves sacrificially spending ourselves. Cresting a summit means facing new challenges. I am convinced that ‘champion’ Christians are those who have been spent and are still going on. Can you hear the hymn they sing?

                I’m pressing on the upward way,

                New heights I’m gaining ev’ry day;

                Still praying as I’m onward bound,

                “Lord plant my feet on higher ground.”

                Lord, lift me up and let me stand,

                By faith, on Heaven’s tableland,

                A higher plane than I have found;

                Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

                                                             (Johnson Oatman, Jr.)

 Higher ground should be the goal of every believer, the end result of a life for Christ, a life that is progressively changed to conform to the image of the Savior. Becoming Christlike involves steep ascents, struggles, detours, successes, and failures – because it is basically a battle to change our behavior. So much of growing up in Jesus involves running uphill into the wind.

(Taken from James: Running Uphill Into the Wind by Don Anderson)