A short story.

Ti y late husband showed me how to survive.” She glanced back.

“My Lord taught me how to live.”

Her eyes sparkled.

“Both of them told me to keep runnin’ for the rest of my life.”

As always, I was interested in what she had to say, even if I had heard it many times before. As usual, I was breathing hard as I struggled to keep up with her, even though she was well past 70. Above the neck, she was shielded by huge sunglasses and a floppy hat and resembled a typical granny, capable only of resting on a park bench or shuffling through a mall.

“T joined his church, and in it,” she explained, “exercise is part of our faith.” Most folks regarded the beliefs of her denomination as odd, and some considered them un-Christian, but its members were the healthiest and longest-lived group of Americans.

“Your main problem,” she continued, “is you’re younger. When you’ve been movin’ as long as I have, it’s as natural as wakin’ up. Feelin’ good is righteous.”

Below the neck, she was a replica of a high school cross-country runner during summer break, doing repeats of three-mile loops up, down, and around a small lake in the mountains. Her muscles were taut, and her waist was trim. Little sweat appeared on her skin, and neither her shorts nor her singlet was damp. Her trail shoes hovered above the dirt and gravel path as she kept a few steps ahead of me.

“Are four laps enough for you today?” she asked with a slight note of concern. “Or are you ready for five?”

“T’m not ready, but I’m game.”

“TI pick up the pace, but don’t you try it. ’ll see you at the finish.”

The sun had emerged but was barely visible through the customary mist rolling down from the peaks.

“Don’t go too fast,” I called out. “We haven’t had much rain lately, and we don’t want sparks from your shoes to start a fire.”

“No danger of that.”

She gave a little wave and headed out of sight.

Not like my grandmothers, | thought.

Those proper ladies had been loving, nurturing, and renowned as cooks. But they were breathless if they hurried across their kitchens, and they had trouble squeezing in and out of pews.

Klutz.

I nearly tripped over a small branch half embedded in the path. I used to joke that it was a sign of age when I couldn’t safely move and think at the same time. I came to realize that my maladies were self-inflicted by my couch potato lifestyle.

A lifelong bachelor, I burned out after developing a series of large churches in big cities. I accepted early retirement but volunteered to pastor a tiny rural congregation. Up to that time, I never heard a sermon about negative consequences of obesity. I rarely encountered a condemnation of gluttony or sloth. When I was in seminary, an interest in health and fitness was criticized as a troubling sign of prideful attachment to things of the flesh.

I began to watch my diet as well as my waistline. I tried walking, then jogging, and finally running. I met Granny during my first race, a 5K from the base of a nearby mountain to a park at its top. Wheezing and stumbling at the one-mile mark, I felt a breeze as she blew past me. Noticing my red face and sour expression, she encouraged me.

“Cheer up, Sonny. You’re beatin’ hell out of everybody ain’t out here.”

Always an early riser, I enjoyed sitting in the cool and dark with my little dog and sipping a cup of steaming coffee on the front porch of my cottage, perched on a narrow and twisting lane above the lake. I discovered that Granny was a neighbor, and I watched her leaving her cabin. She moved stiffly down to the path and slowly began to accelerate.

On impulse, I shouted to her as she was coming back.

“T need to talk with you.”

She trotted over.

“Can you show me how to get better?”

“Maybe.”

“Can I go out with you?”

“On two conditions, Sonny.”

She grinned as she leaned against my porch railing.

“First, you’re at your door to meet me half an hour before dawn, rain or shine, every morning except Saturday.”

I thought about that one.

“Well, my Sunday service isn’t until 11 a.m. What’s your second condition?”

“You keep your hands to yourself.”

I grinned back.

“In my situation, I’m not capable of doing anything else.”

We both laughed.

I discovered that she knew her Bible and applied its guidelines to every area of daily life. She pointed out that believers were commanded to stay in shape.

“Get on your computer, tap into a concordance, and see how often the word ‘run’ appears. Learn why Paul believes Christians should be athletes.”

Following her instructions, I found that the word “athlete” had little to do with sports and nothing to do with beating the competition. Instead, it meant getting past your limitations, whether they had been imposed by other persons and outside circumstances or by yourself. It involved an active process of becoming the person you were created to be.

I was nearly around the lake for the fifth time. Some of the locals were concerned that she might be hastening her end by doing too much.

“I’m not worried,” she explained. “Death’s not a dead end but a fork in the road.”

At grave sites, she reassured grieving relatives.

“Death’s as natural as takin’ off your coat and makin’ yourself at home.”

Whenever onlookers frowned at her running outfits, which she wore whether she was working out, shopping, or paying her last respects, she zinged them with a question.

“The Bible says our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. How’s your temple doin’?”

Like most folks, my temple had been crumbling, soiled by clogged plumbing and littered with garbage. It was not yet a light shining on a hill, but it was being renovated.

After knowing her for a while, I invited her to speak at my church. My sermons about health and fitness had not been heeded. Her testimony was inspiring to some parishioners, but others were scandalized that a person who was not ordained, not a member of our denomination, and not a male was allowed at our pulpit.

Finishing my first 15-miler, I was surprised not to hear one of her amusing but motivating comments. I spotted her sitting in a soft patch of grass, holding a bottle of sports drink and reclining against a tree overhanging a bank by the lake. She seemed to be resting with her eyes wide open. She was smiling, but she was not breathing. I checked her pulse and called 911 on my cell phone, adding that there was no need to hurry.

She had asked me to preach at her funeral and had put that request in her living will.

She wanted celebration instead of sorrow. She had run her race and gone home.

Now and then, I had pondered how I would break the ice at being the first Catholic priest to appear at her Seventh-Day Adventist church.

“A few years ago,” I decided to begin, “you wouldn’t have invited me here.”

“A few years ago,” I planned to continue, “I wouldn’t have come.”

I intended to relate just one story as an example of how she had affected me.

“You look kind of puny,” she had remarked one damp morning before we set out.

“Granny, sometimes I wish I was a car. I’d like to look up into the heavens and tell my Maker, ‘With all due respect, how about a manufacturer’s recall on some of my parts?’”

“You voided your warranty, Sonny.”

Her tone was light but her expression was fierce.

“You failed to follow the maintenance schedule in the owner’s manual.” OR