Passion

Her steps slow from a jog to a labored walk as she reaches the shade where I’m sitting. I glance up from my book as she chugs water from her purple plastic bottle.

“If you drink too much it’ll give you a stomach ache,” I warn.

She narrows her eyes.

“I don’t think I want to do this anymore,” she moans as her coach calls her name.

“You can do this. Hustle! Don’t quit,” I smile. She trudges off toward her team, slower than I would have liked to see her go. I remember that feeling well. When I was ten I ran this same field and I hated it, too. I remember my lungs burning and my body feeling entirely too heavy to be supported by my jelly-legs.

It was worth it, though. The conditioning on triple digit days when I fantasized about throwing up just to get out of the next lap. The blisters where my feet rubbed raw from breaking in new cleats. The terrible tan-lines; knees dark from three practices and weekend games while my shins and thighs remained pale protected by shorts and shin guards and socks.

It was worth it because I loved the game. I loved being a part of a team. I loved the challenge of competition, the glory of victory.

“My stomach hurts and I want to go home and I don’t want to do this anymore,” she flops down on the grass, tears in her eyes.

“I know it’s hard, but you’ll feel better when you’re finished. Only half an hour left,” I say trying to be encouraging, but her exasperated sigh contradicts my words.

Passion.

The word pops into my head as I watch her struggle to keep up with the team.

She needs passion if she’s going to get through conditioning.

I drop my book, Walking on Water by Madeleine L’Engle, into my purse and lean back in my camping chair. The wind rushes over me and through the mature shade trees that had only been saplings held up by splints a childhood ago.

Passion. Passion is… Passion is the thing that keeps pushing you when you want to quit. Passion is what kicks in when your legs want to give out. Passion is what drags you down the field when your mind says you’re through.

Passion is what keeps me coming back butt-in-chair when fear tells me the words have dried up. Passion pushes me to the next deadline when I’d rather succumb to the easy anesthetization of social media. Passion punches me in the gut when I try to look away from the overwhelming hurt in the world. Passion pries open my heavy eyelids at 4:10am every Saturday morning for my office hours, even if I stayed up too late the night before.

It was passion in the garden, where Jesus wrestled in prayer, that set His mind firmly on His game-plan: “Thy will be done.” It was passion that held Jesus to the cross: The Passion of Christ. In the midst of searing pain, of burning suffocation, of blood and sweat stinging his eyes, of a parched mouth, He remained steadfast. When His heart broke with love for the people hurling insults at Him, passion to fulfill his destiny carried Him through as the sky went dark. The passion of Christ stretched out on display for a world that knew Him not.

And then it was finished. And He felt better, being raised from the grave and glorified by his Father. The hours suffering were worth it because of the prize set before Him.

In this incredible story somehow we are His prize. And we are worth it. And we are worth it because He said so. My heart is gripped by grace.

Passion.

Passion pulls us beyond comfort and into glory.

The swirling wind gently descends my thoughts back to the field. I open my eyes to see her slowly stumbling after the ball, she’s giving up.

“Go Emma! Pressure! Step up!” I shout. Her steps quicken and I could almost pinpoint the moment of ignition. All it takes is a spark of passion to fuel a fire that consumes.

The whistle blows and practice is over. She grabs her water bottle and leads me to the car. “I cannot wait to SIT DOWN! I feel gross. My tummy hurts. I am definitely not going to read on the way home,” she asserts as she climbs in the backseat and moves the paperback to the seat next to her.

I try to explain to her about Passion in terms that feel authentic.

She reads the whole way home.