I feel like a Mother Confessor. From my vantage point overlooking the trail of people sauntering up the hill to the the stop sign where Castlevine Court meets Richland Lane. They wave and, without prodding, offer their confession:

“This is my cool down; I ran four miles,” says the Mom who competed in the Tough Mudder this year.

“Hope you’re not watching how slow I make it up the hill,” says the husband who still toils at the work that inclines much travel even after he suffered through cancer treatment.

“Brought plenty of joggers with me this morning,” says the early morning solo runner. This weekend he has a houseful of guests in town for a family wedding.

Funny how the stories of these neighbors come clear in their greeting.

‘Am I enough?’ says the first.

‘I’m not what I used to be,’ says the next.

‘Oh, where is my serenity?’ says the last.

They greet me as a neighbor and a fellow runner. I, too, am no longer fast, no longer young, and still inclined toward solo running. From my vantage point as friend and fellow fitness compatriot, I see more and hear more than I am meant to, perhaps. There is a sharing beyond sharing. And a fellowship, unspoken.

Does God see me like I see them? Is He poised at the intersection of steep climb and level ground? Will I indict myself when I see Him looking on? Will I suppose that He is not satisfied with my distance or my pace or my selfishness?

Or will I remember this day when I saw my neighbors and was delighted just to have them wave and greet me? Amazing how we indict ourselves.