“Yeah, of course. We don’t move without orders.” Stephen answered.
Ray continued, “Life isn’t much different, it’s just that you are the one who has to call the missions of your own life. Sometimes you have a choice in which missions you take. Sometimes you don’t. And just like most missions, the plan changes once the action starts. But you’re still moving towards a series of designated outcomes; be it recovering from a health crisis, growing a business, working to achieve a happy marriage. You might get past a particular outcome but your missions don’t end, you’ll always have a new mission. And the most important missions include your family. Those are the ones that focus on their physical health, their mental health, and yes- even their spiritual health. But before you can lead them, you need to know you can lead yourself. Once you have that, you’ll get rid of a lot of the anxiousness that comes with the insecurities we all carry. Get rid of that and you’ll find yourself enjoying things a lot more. Once you have a few small wins, you’ll get your feet under you and start to take some joy from the mission.”
“Sounds intriguing. Let me see if I got this, get a hold of the big picture, learn to appreciate the journey and smile at life’s little moments. Is that the plan? Then yeah, I can see where you’re going with this. Doesn’t sound like brain surgery. I don’t think.”
“You need to remind yourself that you’re executing a mission. And you’re doing whatever needs to be done to accomplish that mission. If something doesn’t go according to plan, that’s okay; adapt and overcome. But you have to be able to accept that not everything has to go according to plan in order to achieve the mission but that’s okay.”
“Alright, let’s say I’m on board with this concept. So how do I get there?”
Ray sat back in his padded chair and folded his hands across his flat stomach. “I want to propose a challenge to you. Something that will test you physically. But more than physical it will probably test you at a greater degree mentally.”
“I thought you were going to say we need to start doing sessions. You know, discuss the messed up stuff in my brain and work through my ‘issues’.”
Ray insisted, “Oh no, don’t for a minute think we’re going to skip that fun. We’re going to spend all kinds of time in that scrambled brain of yours.”
“That’s going to be fun.” Stephen sighed.
“But first, I want to give you a mission. You’ll have to work towards this objective. But when you’re done,” Ray’s rocked in his chair as white teeth flashed in satisfaction, “I’m pretty certain you’ll be at a point where you can start to appreciate accomplishments. Who knows, maybe that’s the breakthrough you’ve been needing to start seeing all the great things you’ve got going in your life.”
“How do I know when I’m at that point?”
“You’ll know alright.”
Surprised by Ray’s assurance, Stephen questioned him, “You make it sound as if there will be a big sign that’ll tell me I’m healed or something.”
“Oh, there will be.” Ray smiled mischievously, “In big bold letters. And it’ll be marked FINISH LINE.”
Mile 18
Another white sign slowly came into view on the ground ahead. The number eighteen written on it gave Stephen a small burst of encouragement in knowing he was approaching the latter miles of the race. The momentary encouragement was rudely interrupted by a sharp stiffness in his lower back which forced him to arch toward the rear and into an awkward angle. Feeling a twinge of relief, he continued running in the odd position. He felt he probably could have finished the race in this contorted position but Stephen assumed that he looked so outrageous it would entice a course photographer to make him the poster child for the post-race gag reel. He declared vanity the victor and straightened his back, immediately causing the tightness to return.
While his pace slowed significantly from earlier in the morning, he was now passing several other runners. He inadvertently stared at some of the pained expressions people were making with each step. It occurred to him that he had been running all morning and was just now passing these individuals. While he knew there were some people who chose to walk the marathon, they couldn’t have been this far ahead of him. Instead, he realized that these were runners who had switched to walking and it did not appear to be by choice.
The road, seemingly conscience of an opportunity exposed by Stephen’s weariness, curved to the right and shifted into a steep incline. Stephen made the turn with an excessive bodily lean that would have made even the best special effects artist jealous. Rounding out the turn and straightening his posture, he stared in disbelief at the scene before him.
Both sides of the road ahead of him were littered with broken down runners in a strange apocalyptic version of the race course. They were scattered and separate but seemed close enough together for Stephen to wonder if something had impacted them as a group. He saw some people leaning over the side of the road in the obvious aftermath of reliving every ounce of food they had consumed over the previous twelve hours. Others appeared to be attempting some modified version of a calf stretch; which, based upon the expressions on their face, seemed to look more like a self-induced torture session. While a few of the runners were getting assistance from others, most were left to suffer on their own, sprawled across the curbs while others lay helplessly out along the grassy perimeters.
There was a bike on the side of the road marked “EMT.” Stephen knew things had gone poorly for some runner when all he could see was the back of the medic crouched on the ground taking the pulse of a woman lying flat on her back. Her friend was speaking calmly to her and the medic looked as though he was pulling the radio from his back pocket.
Making the call for backup. Never a good sign.
Stephen knew the end of her race had arrived. He selfishly wondered if the medic would continue to ride ahead after the lady was picked up. Not that he felt he needed it right then, but Stephen had become quite familiar with the value of having a good medic nearby and he wasn’t overly confident about running too far ahead of this one.
Stephen had served with several medics before his deployment and his faith in them had always been high. In a post- September 11th world, training routines for Cavalry troops were no normal day at the office as injuries increased with their drilling intensity. Even over his weekend stints with the National Guard, the constant presence of a medic gave him a comfort, if not a little extra shot of bravery. But it wasn’t until Iraq that Stephen came to fully appreciate the heart that drives a medic to do their work.
Stephen pained to remember that young medic who looked over him before chunks of that building began falling on their makeshift medical site. Just the site of that kid’s pale face had given him a boost of courage in the scariest moment of his life. Despite his young age, the boy had comforted Stephen and given him hope through his calm and professional demeanor. When the rubble came down from that errant mortar round, the medic had instinctively joined Mayweather and provided a human shield to protect his patients. It had worked. He had saved the life of the unconscious Darnell Waters. At that pivotal moment, the medic had written a check for the protection of the soldiers entrusted into his care. It was a check written for the amount of his life. It was a check, which on that day, was cashed.
Stephen was later informed that a heavy piece of the building’s concrete hit the brave medic in the back of his neck and caused a cervical fracture. This led to a sudden loss of nerve supply throughout the entire body, including the heart and blood vessels, causing his blood pressure to drop below a sustainable level. “Spinal Shock”, they had told him. But Stephen had seen the look in those bright blue eyes and knew the cause of his death was nothing less than willful sacrifice.