Three weeks ago, I made a promise to allow Lent to be an opportunity for me to grow and change. From the start, I suffered setbacks with my health that threw me off course. Rather than losing my way into the wilderness, I've been shuffling alongside the narrow path, "FOR WALKERS ONLY," sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, and hoping to feel well enough again to rejoin the low incidence, relatively unassisted, dependable, mobile population on the trail.

    Though my cold, flu, whatever it was, seems to have degenerated into some sort of annoyance with allergies and not completely dissipated, I've decided to resume forward motion. I can't stay on the sidelines forever waiting to be in perfect health, because it's not going to happen. Even when I'm sick, I feel guilty for not appreciating and using the parts I have that still function. I am blessed to have a working set of arms and legs, eyes and ears, and a decent, albeit foggy, intellect. Each breath is a gift; each heart beat, a chance to give. When I press my fingers alongside my neck I feel a pulse, a pulse that could stop at any second. So why have I stopped living?

    I see people with life-threatening illnesses living life with more strength and positivism than I ever have. Once in my life, I had a superficial brush with the awareness that comes from the fear of sickness and death. A few days before Christmas 2009, an urgent care doctor confused my blood work with that of a very sick person's and came into my room with a grave expression and a kind-of childlike hesitation to break the news. For three days I waltzed through a masquerade ballroom of shadow and light, with a terminal diagnosis, telling no one, hanging on to each breath. I let myself be led to the Country Club Christmas party, a zombie in black velvet, my Reaper's cloak. No time for small talk. Each word held the weight of a legacy. This may sound melodramatic, but I thought it was to be my last Christmas.

    When new tests revealed a clean bill of health, I praised God. But not only did I praise God for the chance to live; I also praised Him for this reminder of death. I did't even get angry at the medical lab for their devastating incompetence. The Divine had intervened to shock me awake, so I wouldn't continue to sleepwalk past opportunity and adventure, or dream beyond my chance for attainable joy. I vowed to never stop appreciating and making good use of each moment of my waking life.

    Despite having had such an experience, my resolve still falters. It is for this reason that I recognize sloth as one of my greatest sins. The Bible reassures me that even His Chosen Ones were fickle and in need of constant direction and redirection. So here I am, ready to stop making excuses, ready to realize that I'm more healthy than I am sick.

    Thus far, it's been my own inertia which has prevented me from following the Way. Movement (just thoughtful, swift movement) is the place to start. For my fourth Lenten observation, I am going to take up an activity that will get my heart pumping again. I am getting back on that narrow path, "FOR WALKERS ONLY," both figuratively and literally. Cardiovascular activity, for a half-hour a day, will help me feel as healthy as I am, so I can make greater strides in other aspects of my life.

    According to Amber Dills' recent and very informative Health Beat column in the Washington Daily News, "People who exercise regularly (30 minutes daily) report fewer colds than their non-exercising counterparts! If your symptoms are limited to the mouth, nose, and throat, you can definitely exercise!If you have a fever, extreme tiredness, diarrhea, or muscle pain/soreness, do not exercise until those symptoms have resolved." This may seem like common sense, but when I don't feel well, and it's hard to think clearly, I need ammunition against my excuses.

I took advantage of a break in the rain Thursday to walk at Oakdale Cemetery, pictured above.

    I can't think of a better place to walk, swim or bike ride than Washington, North Carolina. There's the waterfront, Washington Park, Mac'swood and Oakdale Cemetery for walking; the whole town for bike riding; and the pool at Lifestyles Medical Fitness Center for swimming. It's raining a little today, but it's warm, and I feel like being outside, so I think I'll walk at Oakdale Cemetery, which is only two blocks from my house. My friend Meghan Hylton told me yesterday that the perimeter of the cemetery is a little over a mile. I'll report back on how many miles I can walk in thirty minutes. I'll also report whether or not the throbbing pain I have had shooting down my right shin since last night goes away. My grandparents and great aunts are buried at Oakdale Cemetery (the Cutler, Deatherage, Sanderson plot) and it very well may be my body's final resting place. Oddly enough, to be there, near them, is inspiring, not depressing. Where they are is where my heart is. What better place to start living for and from my heart?

    This blog was typed Thursday, but couldn't be posted until today. At the cemetery on Thursday I managed to walk roughly two miles in 30 minutes. Friday, the rain came down without rest, so I went to Lifestyles and pedaled my weak legs for 30 minutes through seven miles of hills. I'm also happy to report that each day the pain in my legs is felt much less frequently.

    This article provided courtesy of our sister site: Beaufort County Now