The Cost of Caring
10 minutes into my run, random songs with fast tempos and heavy bass pumping adrenaline into my body via my ears, another sound catches my attention. Something from outside the earbuds crammed into my head.
“Josh… Josh… Josh!”
Looking over my shoulder I see Sandy Brown, grinning ear-to-ear and leaning out the window of his white Suburban. Without another thought I turn around, winding around some random apartment sign slammed into the dirt, to snake my way up to shake his hand. I’ve not seen Sandy in months, and an occasional phone call here and there just doesn’t go far enough down the road of keeping us even remotely caught up. Sandy is an amazing guy; someone I need to know better, hang around, learn from and eat his (freakin’ amazing) barbecued [anything]. He’s been going through rough times lately. More than just the loss of much of his business, a broken water heater flooded his home. And on, and on, and on. He’s one to never talk about himself, but I was insistent, truly wanting to hear how the fam was and that things were good. They were.
We talked. Briefly. Said appropriately parting words. He leaned back into the car and I spun back around and continued on. “Great exchange,” I thought to myself, “glad I stoppped to say hello.”
Smug with my own greatness, it only took me 10 more steps before the next thought staggered me: How am I going to finish this run under my time limit? My throbbing heart thudded to the floor.
I’ve made a commitment to myself: I have to run 3 miles, as often as I can, but always under 30 minutes. Totally doable; my average time has been 28 minutes–starting at 29 and lately being closer to 27. This is my 6th run in the last two weeks (thank you, Spring). Yet, after maybe 4 minutes of conversation with Sandy, I’m suddenly out of reasonable bounds. I wasn’t sure I could still do it.
Immediately I thought: “Well, talking with Sandy is more important than being under my time on that run. It was a priority. And nobody is watching (or even cares about) my run times. Barely even me, most days (unless it’s really good and close to 27 minutes). Immediately after that first Immediately I picked up the pace, choosing to defer my ultimate fatality to the clock and not my own incompetence or weakness of will.
And sure enough, the clock wasn’t friendly. Noting times at familiar places, I was 3 minutes behind a normal run schedule. Bigger steps. Faster pace. Stitch in the side, shallowness of breath. Gasp. I made the run, forcing myself to do it on time and under 30 minutes. But it hurt. A lot (still does in fact). There may be a payoff later down the road in having risen to the challenge, but that’s not why I did it.
The pointlessness of this daily moment is mitigated by the single thought that taking time to care for another always has a cost. Sometimes it’s a personal one, but not always. Sometimes it’s public, maybe even humiliating. The choice to not care is always there—to not stop, take a moment, to not reach out. In doing so things may not hurt as bad.
Still, I encourage you to take the time. Let it hurt. Live to the fullest.
well said josh