I like to run, especially after snow melts and winter breaks. I’m not an avid runner by any means but I enjoy the crisp morning air bouncing around the cavern of my lungs from time to time. It helps me start my day (ahem) on the right foot. On a good day, I make a one mile trek to Lake Erie from my house and sit on the concrete steps in front of the water when I arrive.

I always notice the mood of the waves. They are somewhere between calm and glass-like or full of angst as they crash and break with force over the rocks. I never know if the mood of the lake foreshadows my day ahead but either way, I say a quick prayer and then turn around to jog back home. I jog on a slight incline, up residential streets until I arrive at my blue colonial in time for morning coffee and sleepy kids wobbling down the stairs. I always feel satisfied with the slight burn in my thighs that follows.

I used to run more. In my 20’s I ran three (!) half marathons and would easily go out for a five mile run on the weekend, “just for fun.” That feels like a lifetime ago. I always tracked my time, pushing myself to be there and back quicker than before. But in my late 30’s, after birthing three children and now a decade of running errands, through parks and towards a career, I’ve grown content with a slow and simple jog. And my body thanks me for it.

Yesterday I took my usual route and noticed the first signs of spring. I have been running long enough up and down the same streets, that I anticipate the first magenta blooms that burst onto the bare branches in front of the pale yellow house on the next block over. I am familiar with the embankments that showcase ivy year round and the ones where white and yellow tulips are the first to sprout. I can tell you about the houses that have traditional wood doors and the homeowners who gift the world with color, daring enough to go for entrances bathed in bright yellow, red or blue.

Though I’ve personally not met all the neighbors along my route, I know the homes that are teeming with young children and the ones teeming with lifelong memories-where empty nesters often enjoy a glass of wine in the evening on their porch. I know where blue jays keep their nests. I know the neighbors who are lucky enough to have raccoon friends stop by to dig through garbage cans. I even know that the neighborhood deer who likes the long front garden in front of the pink house across the street.

It dawned on me during my run yesterday that somehow all of this is symbolic. We have a route set before us, usually something mundane, constant and familiar. Just like I circle the same loop on my morning run, my days are often filled with putting one foot in front of the other, only to do it all over again. Oftentimes it can feel like running on the same boring cement sidewalk.

But it’s whats on the periphery that makes running so enjoyable. It’s when I notice color, spring flowers and animal friends. It’s noticing people. It’s saying hi to neighbors I know and smiling at neighbors I don’t know but often see. It’s seeing the bird above my head bringing a piece of straw to its nest and it’s greeting the vastness of the lake with curiosity and reverence for what the day might hold.

You and I are jogging through life. We are in a loop with our families, our friends, our goals and our jobs. But there is beauty that often lies on the periphery of our route. Are we moving slow enough to notice the details and perhaps God’s grace and love in it all? Do we believe that it’s the periphery that often makes it worth it and points to something much bigger than ourselves?

I’m going to keep running, or at least doing my best. Whether you are physically or metaphorically running, I hope you notice the tree blossoming in magenta on the next street over. For it’s the peripheral that reminds us that the world is so much bigger than what we often think.