Life being, well, life does not always follow the expected path. Since I set off on the challenge of running 14 marathons this year, the unexpected path I have traveled in the last few years has become clearer. The clarity of the past is a stark contrast with the uncertainty of the future. And the unease of the present.

Thinking in greater depth about my father as both a man who lived and a man who died has stirred many emotions. Two of the strongest are doubt and guilt. I am reminded of something a classmate told me in high school about a belief in Japan that guilt is nothing more than the disappointment of family who have gone to Heaven.

No, I am not Japanese. And, yes, I am Catholic and that notion runs counter to my beliefs. But we Catholics do guilt pretty well anyway. As the Charlottesville Marathon approached my mind was filled with much doubt. Doubt about my level of preparedness. Doubts about whether I could accomplish this goal. And doubts about whether any of my efforts would amount to anything or have any impact besides on my knees.

I needed and was looking for a sign that the path I was on was not a dead-end. I did not need a lightning strike, nor the image of Jesus in my toast. Just a small nudge.

I arrived in Charlottesville on Friday afternoon, proceeded to the expo to collect my bib and such and called a cab to take me to the hotel. I piled into the cab and it was clear from the get-go that my driver was a talker. Thankfully, not a close talker, but just your average talker.

So, I engaged in conversation channeling my mother who, if she set her mind to it, could drag personal details out of a dead man. My second question was how long the driver had lived in the area. He hesitated, then said, “I am not quite sure how to answer that.” It was clear I had stepped in the proverbial dog poop.

“Well, I came here when I was about 14 after my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer and we brought her home to spend her last weeks with her family,” he disclosed.

Seriously? Okay, it was not Jesus in a piece of toast and there were no burning bushes, but what are the odds I would get in a cab with someone who had lost a parent to cancer as well?

He went on to tell me that he had a connection with his grandmother and decided to stay in the area for high school instead of going back to Chicago with his father. I told him about Comfort Zone camps and why I wanted to run 14 marathons to raise awareness about them.

The day of the race my doubts had not subsided, but I was too stubborn to back out of the race, so set off for the start. It was all too evident by Mile 2 that Charlottesville was very hilly. Uncomfortably hilly. And on this Saturday morning it was hilly and windy. Mentally I fought back trying to think happy, positive thoughts. Frankly, each positive mantra was separated by some choice four-letter words and plenty of doubt.

I turned on the radio trying to find some station to distract my attention from the hills. First go was a program focusing on how to lose weight. Nope, don’t need that. Second station featured a discussion about the elections in Afghanistan, which I listened to for about a mile or two.

As I was in Charlottesville it was not a surprise that several stations were Christian-oriented. This part of Virginia has plenty of Bibles being thumped. The station was discussing the Book of Job and the use of prayer during times of struggle. Okay, maybe that was closer to Jesus in a piece of toast. I listened and tried to absorb the discussion.

I did not fall to my knees, raise my arms in the air and scream “Praise Jesus, I hear your message.” I am too Catholic for that. And I also was convinced if I stopped I would never get my legs going again. But the message that when ask God for help during difficult times the answer is not always clear. Just like the path forward. But, I figured that it was enough of a sign that I was on the right path. That each training run and each marathon might have an impact. Even if it is just on a chatty cab driver.