“I hate quitters!” That’s what he actually said to me. 

(How fortitude is developed)

When I was in the seventh grade and was part of the track team, I can recall one of those epochal moments where instead of "seizing the opportunity" as the saying goes, the intimidation of the opportunity seized me. It was like all I could see was a large neon sign rapidly flashing "QUIT!"  

It was a gloomy day with a steady drizzle of rain. We had left the comfortable suburbs and were preparing to run against a team way out in the boonies. They didn’t have an all-weather track; just a cinder track that didn’t make for good traction. As I surveyed the other team stretching and warming up, they appeared bigger, stronger and faster. Fear crept in, and I soon found myself paralyzed with dread and overwhelmed with the desire to quit.

I wasted no time running over to the coach and telling him how ill I felt, and that I was on the brink of throwing up. I just wouldn’t be able to run my events that day. Now I don’t want to brag, but I was pretty fast, and had only lost one race which happened to have been my first one the year before.

My coach thought it odd that I had suddenly taken ill, and he reluctantly let me off the hook, and told me to take a place up in the bleachers. I felt guilty and angry with myself for quitting, and as I sat their sulking, I was startled to see my dad walking around surveying the field trying to find me. He looked surprised to see me sitting at the top of the stands, and made his way up to find out what was going on.

My dad was the last person I wanted to see. I sure didn’t expect him at the meet that day, but there he was, walking towards me, and obviously curious as to why I wasn’t preparing to race. Of course, I told him in pathetic tones how sick I felt, and that the coach encouraged me to sit this one out (he didn’t put it quite that way, but I thought it would add to my defense). After pleading my case, he just stood there; hands on his hips and shaking his head in disbelief. I thought he was over-reacting; It was only a Jr. High race. It’s not like I was trying out for the Olympics.

Finally, after enough silence passed necessary for me to fully feel his disappointment, he said;

“So, you’re quitting.”

“No,” I whined, “I just don’t feel well. I’m sorry.”

“You sure are,” he replied.

He then pointed down to the field and said; “I want you to get your body down there, stretch out, and run your events. Your team is counting on you, and I didn’t drive all this way to sit with a quitter.”

Okay, that hurt! Not because it was cruel, but because it was true. My dad always new the right buttons to press when it came to getting my attention. Don’t mistake the relationship I had with my dad. He was a godly man, an exceptional father, a very good pastor and undoubtedly my best friend. He loved sports, but he didn’t love them more than me, nor was he on some ego trip that required my success in sports. He desired that I be a godly man and exceptional in character. He liked seeing me take on hard things and do them, and if possible, do them well. Many times, the hardest things we must engage come down to conquering our own weaknesses.

I was a bit more startled by his next statement. It was stronger, and was the verbal equivalent to a kick in the seat of the pants when he stated;

“Rick, I hate quitters!” He actually said that to me. Of course, I knew him well enough to know that he didn’t hate me, but he hated the weakness that I had chosen to be my identity.

“Get out there and run,” he added. “I don’t care if you cross the finish line dead last. You are not going to quit. You are going to race.” And then he added a phrase I had heard him say many times in other fatherly commands; “You are going to run, and you are going to like it!”

I protested a few more minutes, but to no avail. It was pointless to continue. He was not going to let me quit. I could imagine him throwing me over his shoulder and running the race with me flopping around on his back. That thought was intolerable.

I reluctantly went down and informed the coach of my miraculous healing, and was prepared to race. I’m not sure, but I think I caught him looking beyond me and exchanging a smile with my dad.

Quitting is more than an action, it is the reflection of wrong emotions that blind vision and stifle creativity. It’s not the present hardship that makes us want to quit, but the laziness of our soul to want to persevere. Emotions are powerful, that is for sure, and life would be outright boring without them, but our emotions make terrible leaders, fickle captains and poor decision makers. Our minds are better at leadership, and allied with the fortitude of our wills, they can order emotions to stand down. Fortitude is the strength of our will fueled from the desire to persevere in our minds. The emotions are added for the drama.

The gun fired, and I was out of the block running, and I even won; and yes, I did rather enjoy it. My dad hated quitters, and he knew I really wasn’t a quitter. Through him, my fortitude powered up my desire to persevere, and I won more than just a race that day. Sometimes you don’t know what the real prize is until you cross the finish line. The simple lesson is this: “Do you not know that in a race all the runners run, but only one receives the prize? So run that you may obtain it.” (I Corinthians 9:24)