Running on Faith

By Linda Down as told to Kathryn Slattery, New York, New York

In the spring of 1982 I was 25 years old, with a newly acquired master's degree in social work, and sharing a New York City apartment with my twin sister, Laura. Times being what they were, I was out of work. And I was 25 pounds overweight. So, when I wasn't out looking for a job, I busied myself doing sit-ups in an effort to lose weight. And, because I needed spiritual strength as well, I began reading the Bible.

And then the strangest thing happened. One day I was sitting on the living room floor doing sit-ups, huffing and puffing like a steam engine, when a singular thought drifted through my mind...a thought so unusual it couldn't have been my own...a thought that grabbed my attention and held it like one of those messages being pulled across the sky by an old-time biplane: Run the New York City Marathon.

The thought at first excited me, but it was so ludicrous that I laughed out loud. You see, my sister and I were both born with cerebral palsy. We have what is called mild spastic partial paralysis of our legs, and to get around, we depend on our "Canadian canes," aluminum crutches that attach to our forearms.

As the days passed, however, the thought wouldn't leave me. I kept wondering: Was it possible?

When I told Laura about the thought, she didn't seem to think the idea was so ridiculous. "I don't know about any marathon," she said in her quiet, matter-of-fact way, "but you do have a lot of time on your hands. And you do want to get in shape. Maybe you could try jogging."

That did it. Running the marathon was an impossible goal, a goal that would take a miracle to accomplish, but that appealed to me. The New York City Marathon was six months away. I would do everything I could to run it.

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Patterns of Grace

From best-selling author and Guideposts favorite, Debbie Macomber writes from the heart in this very personal devotional.  You'll learn how a Bible helped simplify her life, how she learned to not just pray but to listen, and how she sees God's fingerprints all over her life.

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Back then the only way to run in the New York City Marathon, if you weren't a nationally recognized runner with a preexisting qualifying time, was to apply early or enter a lottery. I'd already missed the early filing deadline, so I had to go into the lottery. When I filled out the application form, there was no box to check for "disabled." I simply completed the form like an able-bodied person and dropped it in the mailbox with a prayer.

I didn't tell many people about my plans, just Laura, my mom and a few close friends. I was too shy—embarrassed, really—to talk about it. What if I failed? Could I finish even part of the 26-mile, 385-yard race?

When I started training, my pace was so slow, about 25 minutes per mile, that I found myself doing a lot of running at night. About three times a week, often after a long day of job hunting, I grabbed my crutches and set out from our apartment on East 39th Street. I headed north, up Fifth Avenue—past Trump Tower and Tiffany's, past the Plaza Hotel, and up alongside Central Park, where uniformed doormen stood guard in front of the city's most elegant apartment buildings. As weeks passed, I became a familiar sight, hurrying by on my crutches; doormen tipped their hats as I passed and some called out words of encouragement.

As I grew stronger, my runs grew longer, taking me farther up Fifth Avenue, past the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and all the way up to Mount Sinai Medical Center on 100th Street, where I turned around and headed back home the same way. Many times it was past midnight when I finally returned home, where Laura would be waiting up for me with my favorite dish, a big plate of spaghetti.