I’m trying to get into running again after a month-long hiatus. It’s not easy, but there are some perks–like the thrill of rediscovering young love, or the freshness of a new one after a string of jaded entanglements.

The hard part is putting on my shorts and shirt, ponytailing my hair, and lacing up. But even as I’m walking to the jogging track, all geared up, and up to the point where I hit “start” on my Nike+, I’m fighting viciously with my mind. It takes everything I’ve got to debate my own cleverness, especially when it’s about trading the afternoon run for that slice of tablea cake in that cozy cafe.

I think the trick is to just go on auto-pilot and not think.

When I finally hit the ground, joining other runners, I think to myself, this isn’t so bad. And halfway through, I remember what I loved about it, what I can love about it again.

And then when I’m rounding the corner towards the last quarter of my run, and the sun is a golden fiery ball splattering orange and purple all over the horizon, I smile.

I take sunsets very personally, you see. I’m convinced God fingerpaints each sunset to beckon me to look up. He knows how my eyes need to break away from my earthbound vision. Each sunset reminds me how glorious He is, how glorious all creation is, including the body He created. I see how truly small everything is compared to the bigness of God.

Last night, by the end of my run–a programmed 5km that became 6km thanks to the sunset–I’ve forgotten the tablea cake.

And then the whole struggle starts again on the next run, and the next.