It’s Not the Heat, It’s the Humility

This past Sunday, shortly after my 3:30am alarm went off, I groggily laced up my running shoes and got ready to head down to Miami. It would be the sixth time I’d be running a full marathon.

In these past six years, I’ve changed a lot. Sometimes, it’s hard for me to understand who I was before this journey.

Of course, it’s not difficult to remember the late nights of mindless snacking. If I’m honest, there are nights when that still happens. It’s not hard to remember the urge to try every hors d'oeuvre at a simcha. Those Yetzer Haras are still very much a part of who I am. Perhaps one day I wont feel them, but for now, I’m learning to live with them.

The difference now is that I no longer live with the guilt and despair that comes with failure. Now, I can fail without the concern that it’s a permanent set back.

Every week, I have a schedule of runs and workouts. I don’t always still to it. But more often then not, I’ll push myself to lace up, and the moment I begin to jog slowly down the block, I know I can bounce back from any lapses in judgement.

That’s the part thats hard to remember: The me who spent weeks, months and years feeling powerless to change. The guy that was convinced I’d be slow and overweight forever.

The greatest lesson that I have a learned from training, running, competing is simply that I can. This thing that was so far beyond my capacity to dream of, is now a thing that I can do.

So it was with feelings of immense gratitude to Hashem, my family, friends and kehillah that I toed the start line on Sunday morning with hopes of setting a new personal record.

Less than five minutes later, I knew it was going to be a much tougher run than any of us expected. With the humidity at almost 100%, the air was hot, thick and wet. I looked around me to see everyone readjusting their expectations.

This didn’t bother me too much; I’d been here before. As my playlist of Jewish pump-up music rung through my headphones, I found my new pacing, dug in and prepared to conquer the challenging morning ahead.

All was going well, until something unexpected threw me off completely. The music in my ears suddenly dimmed out, and my trusty Apple Watch warned me: “low battery.”

This was not part of the plan. I knew I had fully charged everything. Why would this moment be the time my devices should fail?!

Suddenly, everything changed. With a blank screen on my wrist, I had no idea what my pace was. I had no idea how many miles I had covered or how far I had still to go. I couldn’t check my heart rate; and the music stopped.

The only sound I could hear was the crunch of shoes against the road, and my own labored breaths joining the cacophony of wheezes and groans from my fellow runners.

In an instant, all my feelings of success and gratitude gave way to deep frustration. I felt lost and annoyed... with no-one to whom I could direct my annoyance. This was no-one’s fault. Sometimes, devices fail.

Slowly, however, my frustrations turned inwards as I began to get angry with myself for being so annoyed. I was embarrassed to be so thrown off by a little square on my wrist; embarrassed at my own weakness that I felt like I couldn’t continue without a device to play music and measure my pace and distance. It was shocking to feel such dependency.

Quitting the race was out of the question. I don’t think I could actually bring myself to admit that “I dropped out of the race because my watch died.” But for a few seconds, I really wanted to.

By the end of those few seconds, I had reached a new understanding of my own vulnerability. It dawned on me that even our greatest personal achievements are propped up, and held together by countless little details; none of which we can honestly take credit for achieving.

Any success I have in running (or life) is not just dependent on my effort and perseverance. It requires tools, not limited to a watch and headphones. Success requires shoes, clothes, friends, nutrition, hydration, physical health, flexible time, and wife who’s supportive enough to take care of our kids when I’m running and recovering (just to name a few.) When any of those things don’t quite work out perfectly, everything falls apart.

That moment was a crash course in humility.

My thoughts turned to the hostages, to their families, and to the Chayalim who have endured so much and still continue to persevere. I felt my own smallness when compared to their colossal strength.

But, most of all, in a strange way, I felt grateful that I was finally understanding all of this in a way that I had never comprehended before.

Chazal (רש”י שמות טו:ב) describe that Klal Yisrael experienced a similar epiphany as they crossed Yam Suf:

רָאֲתָה שִׁפְחָה עַל הַיָּם מַה שֶּׁלֹּא רָאוּ נְבִיאִים A maid servant beheld at the Red Sea what even the prophets never saw.

We are left questioning, however, what exactly did the maid-servants see that not even the greatest of prophets could perceive?

The Sfas Emes (מימים אחרונים של פסח תרל”ח) explains: At Yam Suf, the maid-servants finally understood that they were no longer maid-servants. For the first time, they knew that they were children of Almighty God. (Indeed, whenever we recall the crossing of Yam Suf, we do so as children of Hashem: המעביר בניו בין גזרי ים סוף כו' וראו בניו גבורתו כו' מלכותך ראו בניך בוקע ים...)

In the vulnerability of walking precariously between the miraculous walls of water, every Jew felt the absurd improbability of their own existence, and thus, their total dependance on Hashem. But as weakness transcended into wonder, each and every Jew felt like they were being lovingly carried by the Master of the Universe.

But it wasn’t just that event.

Their minds flashed back to the darkness and confusion of Egypt, and they finally realized that Hashem was there too: וַיַּרְא יִשְׂרָאֵל אֶת־הַיָּד הַגְּדֹלָה אֲשֶׁר עָשָׂה ה’ בְּמִצְרַיִם – And Israel saw the wondrous power which Hashem had wielded in Egypt.

For a brief moment, everyone knew that the only explanation for our existence, abilities, capabilities and opportunities is that Hashem loves us, and has orchestrated the whole of Creation for us to run our race.

When they crossed Yam Suf, no one needed music playing in their ears. The song came from deep inside of the hearts and souls every Jew; and that song is still within each of us. Chazal teach us that one day we will sing again. After all, אז ישיר is written in the future tense: Then we will sing...

Perhaps when that day comes, we might all finally understand that everything that seemed to go wrong in our lives was only a window to seeing how Hashem was still holding our hands, even on the days when the batteries died; when the screens went blank and when the music faded.

That was the thought that carried me over the finish line on Sunday; and I’m hoping to hold onto it. Hashem should help us all to feel Him holding our hands, carrying us over all the thresholds ahead.