That Saturday morning I slept in. Not like I had anything to get up for anyway. But I was staying at my sister’s and she had other ideas.
“Come on,” Kristina said, rousting me out of bed. “We’re going for a run.”
We’d both been runners growing up. I was on the cross-country and track teams in high school, though I wasn’t fast enough to race at the college level at Notre Dame. Still, I ran regularly and completed my first marathon senior year.
But I hadn’t laced up my running shoes in two years. First it was because I didn’t have time. I was a newlywed and new at my job as an insurance claims adjuster.
Lately it was because I didn’t have the interest or the energy. All the air went out of me when my mother died two months earlier, in October 2006, after a long battle with cancer. A week later, my wife told me she was going to file for divorce. It felt like my life had come to a complete standstill.
I went to work every day, but I was just going through the motions. People worried about me. My dad, my sister, my brother, friends. “You’ve got to pick yourself back up,” they urged.
I tried to reboot my life. I got a transfer from Chicago to our Washington, D.C., office. Kristina lived in the area and I could stay with her while I worked things out.
“Let’s go,” Kristina repeated. “I’ve got this six-mile route.”
I groaned. “I don’t feel like it.”
“You know running is the best way to clear your head,” she said.
Those six miles were brutal. Kristina led us across the George Mason Memorial Bridge into Washington, then down through the city and around the National Mall. Around the halfway mark, gasping for breath, I lifted my eyes to the heavens. Lord, please help me get through this.
I staggered on and finished the run. Maybe I had some fight in me after all.
I started running five days a week. Not far, just a few miles each time. But enough that my body began to respond. Sometimes Kristina and I ran together. She could tell I was feeling better, but like any big sister, she still worried.
She was thrilled when I entered the National Marathon in D.C. the following spring. Among the race sponsors was an organization that raised money for cancer research.
“I’m doing this for Mom,” I told Kristina. “I want to help raise money for cancer research.”
“Let me be the first to write you a check,” she said.
I finished in three hours, 26 minutes, a decent time. But that didn’t explain why I was glowing on the inside. I’d raised nearly two thousand dollars for cancer research. Kristina was waiting for me at the finish line. “You okay?” she asked.
“I can’t tell you how great I feel,” I said, a smile unfolding across my face. I just wanted to keep running.
I left the insurance business and found a part-time job at a running store. The rest of the time, I trained. I ran the Country Music Marathon, the Marine Corps Marathon, the Walt Disney World Marathon. The Boston Marathon.
I signed up for a new challenge: a 100-mile ultramarathon in Texas. No matter how well-conditioned you are, you’ll get to a point in these extreme endurance races where you think, I can’t go another step. You see other people passing you, and you wonder, How on earth are they pushing on?
I hit that point at mile 35. There I was, on a lonely country trail, nothing but scrub brush and mesquite around me. Every part of my body screamed. It hurt just to take in a single breath. Out of reflex more than anything, I started praying.
I can’t explain what happened next. It was like my entire being shifted. My aching legs, my raw feet, my constricted breathing…I let that all go and focused my thoughts, my energy, on praying.
I said prayers in my mother’s memory. I asked for strength to move on with my life, for blessings for family and friends, for a dozen different things. Next thing I knew, I was crossing the finish line.
I’d been praying so intently, I forgot about time! I forgot about the pain my body was in. I even forgot about the sadness that had shadowed me for months. It was just me and God and the road ahead.
By the time I completed my second ultramarathon, in February 2010, I’d made up my mind what to do next: run across the country, the whole country, from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic. Sounds crazy, I know. But I prayed about it and it felt right. Really.
I quit my job, took my savings and moved in with an aunt and uncle in Arizona, and began intensive training. I researched the equipment I’d need and plotted out a route.
I decided to use a jogging stroller to hold my sleeping bag and tent, first-aid supplies, water and food. I picked towns where I wanted to stop, then figured out how to get from one place to the next. I chose Oceanside, California, as my starting point.
I had family in Phoenix and Oklahoma City. South Bend, Indiana, was home to Notre Dame. Kristina and my brother, Dave, lived in Alexandria, Virginia. Two teammates from Holmdel High School in New Jersey would join me for a short stretch there. I’d drop by Sayville, New York, where a friend owned a runners’ shop.
I planned to finish at Smith Point, New York, a journey of 3,700 miles.
I needed something to run for. I thought about collecting donations for a cause, but I wouldn’t be able to raise enough to make a significant difference.
Praying for myself and for family and friends carried me through an ultramarathon, but that was only 100 miles. I’d run out of things and people to pray for before I crossed California.
That’s when it hit me. What if I collect prayer requests along the way? From people all over the world, through Facebook? I can pray while I run. Prayers for others will be my fuel.
That was my intention as I hit the road in Oceanside on January 20 last year. But 160 miles later, in the Imperial Sand Dunes, all I could think was, I’ll never make it out of this desert. The sun blazed. My feet felt like they were being barbecued on the superheated highway.
The jogging stroller I was pushing felt like a Mack truck. The landscape was desolate—cactus, scrub brush, sand. I could barely bend my left leg, but I knew if I stopped to rest, it would lock up.
The desert stretched ahead for another 75 miles. I pushed on. An 18-wheeler roared by, practically blowing me off the road. I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
I fired up my cell phone and checked my Facebook page. It had been a full day since I’d spoken to anyone. Right now I could use a little inspiration from a friend. Instead, I found dozens and dozens of messages from strangers. Each one was a prayer request.
They came from across the U.S. and all over the world: Poland, Italy, El Salvador, Spain, France, Australia, Indonesia, Chile, Panama. People asked that I pray for them to find jobs, for ailing loved ones, for the birth of a healthy baby.
One struck close to home. A man in Canada wrote, “Please pray that I might have strength to survive my failing marriage.”
I put my right hand on my heart and began to pray. I prayed for the Canadian man, for an Italian woman whose mother had cancer, for everyone who had sent their requests my way. Lord, let them know your peace, I prayed.
My own pain and worries, everything that had been weighing me down the past few years, fell away. It was like mile 35 in that first ultramarathon, only deeper, more intense. Just me and God and the peace and joy that only he can bring.
I never again doubted that I would complete my cross-country run. It took from January 20 to May 20. Afterward, I returned to Arizona, where I now split my time working at a running store and working with third graders as a teacher’s assistant.
Of course I’m still running. And praying. And looking forward to the road ahead.
Don't miss Jeff's narrated slideshow featuring images from his cross-country adventure.
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