Chasing Grace Page 8

  This experience changed me. I was more compassionate and understanding of what many women felt every day. I became increasingly aware of the messages being sent to us every day, whether overtly or subliminally.

  PACE

  Pace is all about rhythm. It’s about finding a routine that enhances your chance for success. Many times we think of our routines as the things within our control, like training five days a week, preparing for competition, or studying every night for exams. We also have to be aware of the subconscious routines in our lives.

  Behçets forced me to face my own perceptions of beauty, to be uncomfortable and become more compassionate to individuals who deal with body image. It gave me an opportunity to examine many larger issues as well and check on my relationship with the community at large.

  It’s a daily struggle, but be careful of who you associate with, the music you listen to, and the images and messages you partake of, because they also affect your rhythm.

  POSITION

  Go with Courage

  Chapter 9

  MEETING GRACE

  Knowing You’re Always Loved

  Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword?

  ROMANS 8:35

  What happened?” the enthusiastic Chinese official asked me. “We already had your name on the gold medal.”

  Trust me, I saw my name on the gold medal too.

  This was the crest of the climb. Finally, a finish line. Since Dad first uttered the words when I was nine years old, everything I did was in pursuit of this vision. To win the Olympics, wear the gold medal, and complete the journey from child prodigy to Olympic champion.

  And when you look at all the phases, victory at the 2008 Olympics in Beijing was the obvious crowning achievement.

  Leading into those games, I was on a tear. Nothing could stop me. I was “all the way up” and feeling blessed. So what happened? How did I end up with a bronze, when gold was obviously in my future?

  For most of my career, I’ve answered this question with half-truths.

  I didn’t get much sleep. It wasn’t meant to be. I felt a cramp in my hamstring.

  I’ve repeated these things on so many occasions that I started to believe them. I wanted to believe them.

  This is the real story—one I haven’t told. This is the story of how my bronze medal taught me my most valuable lesson. This is a story of God’s grace.

  For most of my life, I felt like an upstanding “Christian.” I honored the word of God and did my best to approach every decision and confront every obstacle from a place of love. But the 2008 track season forced me to make one of the most difficult decisions of my life.

  With this decision, I realized the frailty of the human condition. I experienced how vulnerable we can become in a split second, and it turned my understanding of God’s grace upside down.

  My hope is that it exposes you to the limitless depth of God’s love.

  After years of prayer and times of fasting, now finally ready to write this chapter, I hold tightly to the truth of my calling. By bearing my weakness, by exposing my struggle with sorrow and shame, by quieting the voice that belittles me into silence, I believe I can reach someone right where they are.

  “On Christ, the solid rock, I stand; all other ground is sinking sand.” Thanks to Sunday school and church choir practice, I’ve been singing these words most of my life. But it took me some time to grasp their meaning.

  The 2008 Olympic Games exposed the small cracks in my spiritual foundation and forever changed my perception of who God is.

  Many times we see God’s commandments as strict rules to keep us away from the best things in life, but they are really just the Father’s loving guidelines to keep us away from pain and sorrow.

  When I met Ross in 2003, I knew that something in my heart had changed. Our first date was to Bennigan’s, a local restaurant, but our second date was to church. Our priorities were the same, and I knew I had found love, the fire that would burn brightly for the rest of my life. I knew early on that Ross would be the one I’d marry. When Ross proposed to me, he said he waited until he signed his NFL contract so I wouldn’t have to buy my own ring.

  He was perfect. Loved the Lord, loved his family, worked hard, and loved sports. We were both just getting started in our careers, and the dreams of all we could accomplish together felt like a fairy tale.

  Because of this, we knew it was equally important to plan for a family. Yes, I knew that abstinence until we were actually married was what God wanted for our relationship, but I started to take birth control a few months after we met. Through 2006, I battled some serious feminine issues as my body reacted to the NuvaRing, my chosen contraceptive. I was constantly in pain. I missed workouts to visit different gynecologists for ineffective treatment after treatment. It was tumultuous.

  I thought about taking the pill, but I’d seen so many teammates struggle with the water weight and changes in their body that I feared the adverse effects it might have on my speed and endurance. I wanted to do the right thing and protect myself from unplanned pregnancy, but I was unaware of all my birth control options and ashamed to talk to my mother or coaches.

  I was naive and in love.

  From 2006 to 2008, Ross and I had full confidence that our system was working well. We were no longer on birth control, but we trusted our plan had no issues and believed my high training load and low body fat also controlled my hormone levels.

  So you can imagine the horror and shock when one month before the Olympic Games, an experience that is supposed to bring tremendous joy instead brought instant fear. The kind of fear that grips your mind, body, and spirit. A fear that envelops you just underneath the skin, rising as hot fire. The kind of fear that zaps your strength and pushes you to a powerless panic.

  Ross had already gone back for training camp with the New York Giants. I called him repeatedly on his cell phone until he finally got out of practice. By the time he got back to me, I could barely get the words out through my tears.

  “I’m pregnant.”

  “You’re what?”

  “I’m pregnant, babe, and I have to leave for Beijing in less than two weeks.”

  After a long pause, as I sensed him carefully measuring his words, he said, “How could this happen? We were so careful.”

  “Don’t worry, babe; everything will be OK.”

  And I really wanted that to be true.

  I believe we’re soul mates. We had planned everything. Ross had already proposed to me, and we set our wedding date for my twenty-fifth birthday on February 26, 2010. There was no way I could plan a wedding during my run-up to the Olympics, and 2009 was out of the question as well. It was a World Championships year, and winning both titles, back-to-back, was the goal.

  Now add a baby to the mix? I couldn’t fathom it.

  What do we do now?

  Over the phone, we didn’t go into details. As if not saying it would alleviate some of the guilt and the shame.

  He wouldn’t be there with me. He was in training camp, and nothing interrupted Tom Coughlin’s schedule for the Super Bowl champions. Nothing.

  We had fallen into this together, but I bore the physical consequences alone.

  I knew I was at a crossroads. Everything I ever wanted seemed to be within reach. The culmination of a lifetime of work was right before me. In that moment, it seemed like no choice at all. The debate of when life begins swirled through my head, and the veil of a child out of wedlock at the prime of my career seemed unbearable. What would my sponsors, my family, my church, and my fans think of me?

  Somewhere we all draw a line. Usually, we draw the line right behind the sin, after we’ve taken one step too far, before we fall past the point of no return. In the days, weeks, and moments leading up to the Beijing games, I rationalized my life against my situation. Where was my line?

  My whole life has been about running against the clock. The
time between Olympic Games makes each one so important that seizing the chance to participate is often a once-in-a-lifetime achievement. No one is guaranteed even one Olympics, and I was finally the favorite, primed to stand on top of the podium. It had been my only consistent dream since I was a little girl, and the unknown of another four years was enough to keep me from taking the chance.

  I had lined up against some of the sport’s biggest and fiercest competitors. I had even run against cheaters, but this was the biggest giant of them all. It was me against my sport. Against myself.

  I will always say it was one of my greatest blessings to be a professional athlete, and I treasure the lifelong lessons and relationships the sport has afforded me. But the dark reality of being a professional female athlete was becoming clear. Just as I neared the peak of my earthly climb, I had to turn back and see how far I could actually fall.

  Most of the women I knew in my sport have had at least one abortion. Prioritizing athletic goals over the gift of life was the norm. It was all around me, but not until it was me did I realize many of these young women only wore a mask of indifference for something I can now testify requires deep thought and proper counsel.

  During the car ride to the clinic, I felt both relief in the decision I had made and panic in what was to come. I entered the clinic composed, yet I was filled with an inner turmoil. All of the crying leading up to that moment had left me so numb that I barely remember the cold instruments as they brushed against my skin, and the emptiness that followed. It was a quick procedure, but it felt like an eternity.

  I made a decision that broke me, and one from which I would not immediately heal. Abortion would now forever be a part of my life. A scarlet letter I never thought I’d wear. I was a champion—and not just an ordinary one, but a world-class, record-breaking champion. From the heights of that reality I fell into a depth of despair.

  But like the champ I was conditioned to be, I boarded my flight to Beijing the very next day. My mom figured it might be too much to handle a fifteen-hour journey with all of my USA teammates, so she planned my flight with one of my best friends, Bershawn Jackson. We had been friends since I was sixteen years old, and he was the friend who could make any situation better. No matter how dire or awkward my circumstances were, he always made me smile. I didn’t tell him for a few years, but he had no idea how much he helped me that day. We talked about our journey from the World Juniors in Kingston to becoming two of the most dominant one-lappers in the sport. We were heading to Beijing to finish what we started, and he helped me smile through my pain.

  The doctor had recommended two weeks with no activity, but that was an order I couldn’t follow. I didn’t tell my coaches, my father, or anyone on Team USA. I landed in Beijing determined to bring home gold. Winning was the only medicine I thought I needed, and I was ready for that medication. I bottled up my sorrow in the deep recesses of my mind. For a brief moment, I felt free.

  The first day of competition went well. I was on autopilot, but instead of just outrunning my competition, I was hoping to outrun myself, and the now uncomfortable feeling of living in my own skin. I won my semifinal round, but my conscience could not be defeated.

  The night before the final, my mind worked in overdrive. I couldn’t shut it off. Shari recalls me babbling foolish nonsense during dinner. Shari had observed my career as completely as anyone, attending every grade school practice and traveling to most of my college and pro meets.

  The feeling in the pit of her stomach spoke clearly.

  “Something isn’t right. I feel like she’s falling apart,” Shari said to Mom.

  She continued to worry all the way back to their rented apartment where she and Mom were staying. Shari never went to sleep that night.

  Neither did I.

  As I lay in bed, in the early morning hours on August 19, 2008, I tossed and turned. Visions of the race kept me up all night.

  I could never get comfortable. I kept fluffing my pillow, adjusting my sheets.

  One o’clock. I’m wide awake.

  Two o’clock. My roommate’s asleep. Why can’t I sleep?

  In this fog, I could sense my soul was fully awake, dreaming of what should be. Usually when I dream, I enjoy the finishes of my races and running across the line. This time was different. It was bizarre. I just kept seeing the first 300 meters over and over again. It was like my heart wasn’t ready for the finish.

  My mind had so activated my body that I could feel a thin film of sweat covering me in an oily blanket. Conscious but exhausted, I could barely discern what was a dream and what was real. Looking around the room, I prepared myself for race day, following the routine that had carried me to victory time and time again throughout 2008. I prepared for Olympic gold.

  However, my confidence was diminishing. My spirit shifted as a wave of guilt washed over me. Instead of releasing it, allowing it to cleanse me deep within, I held on.

  As I walked out onto the track that night, there was a restlessness in my soul I couldn’t tame. My sister didn’t recognize me when my image appeared on the big screen. Not my usual smile, wave, and confident aura. I was broken. Instead of reaching for this finish line, I kept looking back at the line I just crossed. Prayers that typically broke through lacked any personal conviction.

  I had really screwed up this time, and I knew it.

  How could I ask God for this blessing when I had just done the one thing I never thought I’d do?

  Finally, I’m running. Running for real. I pushed out hard and fast. Within the first 100 meters, I chased down and passed the two runners to my right and was tearing through the first straightaway.

  My legs are stretched out underneath me, holding my stride, and my arms are vigorously pumping me into the next gear.

  I held the lead with 100 meters still to run.

  This is where I bounce, where I kick one last time and fly to the finish. This is where I leave everybody behind. They can’t touch or catch me.

  There’s nothing between me and the line. Keep your eyes on the finish line and just run. You can do this. Nobody knows.

  God still loves you.

  Stay focused.

  In the moment, San.

  But there is something. And it’s pulling my focus down.

  The interlocking Olympic rings rise up from the track like ghosts. My past, present, and future. Instead of a clear mind focused on executing the 4 P’s, my mind is cluttered, filled with doubt, shame, and unworthiness, and these are manifested in my body.

  No. Oh please, God, no.

  My right leg jerks stiff and straight, as if those rings leaped up and lurched onto my hamstring. I can’t shift. Form is gone, poise a distant memory. My body is nothing more than a sack of bones, dragging these limbs.

  All I can think about is the cramp in my hamstring. Keep running, I tried to tell myself.

  I can’t. It’s gone.

  The runners on the inside pull even and then surge ahead. I have no answer. Even though my hamstring remains intact, I’m in shambles. I have nothing left to give.

  I’m the third one across the finish line, and gravity lowers me to my knees. My left hand covers my eyes as I try to bury myself beneath this track.

  Please take this weight away from me.

  In the dream the night before my race, I felt the sting of defeat, and I succumbed to it. In some weird way, I felt it was my sacrifice back to God. I didn’t deserve to be on the track that day or stand on top of the podium in Beijing. I didn’t feel worthy of His love.

  As I composed myself to head to the podium, one of the staffers came toward me with an odd smile. He could tell I was hurting. And he wanted to say something to lift my spirits, maybe even make me laugh.

  “We already had your name on the gold medal,” he said, confirming the expectations of the world and affirming that I’d be waiting in vain for another four years.

  I burst into tears.

  Humiliation covered me. The bronze medal hung around my neck like a b
urden I was too broken to carry.

  It was crushing in a way that can’t be explained. I was so broken, physically and emotionally.

  Eyes swollen by the tears, body aching from the loss, I willed myself to the medal stand. All I wanted to do was get to my family and the safe harbor of their apartment and cry. After I left the stadium, I jumped on a public bus to head away from the media, the village, and my fellow athletes. I needed a refuge, and I needed it fast.

  As I boarded the bus, the loss started to sink in, and I quickly found a seat to sink into. My shoulders collapsed under the disappointment.

  As the bus lurched forward, I realized I didn’t know where I was. Was this even the right bus to be on?

  I searched the seats for a familiar face; a trace of red, white, and blue; a Team USA hat—anything that looked familiar. Nothing. Anxiety began to suffocate me. My throat tightened, and I found it hard to breathe. A full-blown panic attack was setting in. I felt totally lost, confused, and scared. My internal warfare was now my external reality.

  I got off at the next stop, weeping in agony as I tried to navigate a crowded Beijing sidewalk. It was in the midst of this foreign hysteria that a shallow “help” squeezed through the battlefield of my mind and out of my mouth as a whisper. My shaking of soul eased, and the anxiety diminished. This all-consuming peace, a peace that surpasses all understanding, flooded my heart and illuminated my spirit. I could hear the familiar, loving voice of a friend—my Father, my healer, my protector, my everything—calling out to me that it was OK, that I would be OK.

  Until then, I had never truly experienced the mercy of God, had never felt His love in a physical presence. I had yet to feel Psalm 139:8: “If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.” I didn’t see that God was there with me, weeping, praying. I couldn’t understand that His Son’s sacrifice on the cross was for me at my worst.