The Day the Gates of Hell (Almost) Prevailed

A little summer story about suffering and sanctity

[Dedicated to Jacob Bentzinger and the Kansas Run Club]

I have a confession.

I love to run.

The torrid affair began over a decade ago, after I suffered a serious injury while on assignment in Rome—covering the 2013 Conclave, of all things. At the time, I thought it was the end of the world. But as it turns out, it was just the beginning of a new one.

To the casual observer back then, I probably looked like someone trying to speed-walk while having a stroke. But after a few torturous years of gasping, aching, and regretting my life choices, I crossed some mystical threshold… into the freedom and joy of running, blissfully striding through life like a gazelle…which I don't run like.

I run more like a giraffe.

But I don’t care, I still love it.

There's this perfect five-mile loop near my house. It winds through a wildlife sanctuary, crosses a little bridge, and finishes at the beach.

Well, it’s almost perfect.

There’s a mile long stretch that passes through a salt marsh. And when the the early days of summer arrive, I like to refer to it as ‘The Gates of Hell.’

It's the haven of the dreaded Minions of Evil…

The Greenheads.

I call them the spawn of Satan—biologically classified as flies with an obsessive compulsive bloodlust.

I know I'm not supposed to disparage God's creation, but…

And one fateful morning, early in my running journey, I found this out the hard way. I was jogging along, blissfully unaware, when it began.

First, an observation: Hmm. That's a HUGE fly.

Then, annoyance: Okay… there's more than one.

Then, disbelief: Wait... are they... biting me??

Then, full-blown horror: THEY'RE EVERYWHERE!

Every fiber of my being was on fire as the cloud of firebreathing flies descended upon me with the fury and rage of a thousand suns. My brain shouted, "Is this happening?!!" Followed immediately by, "THIS IS HAPPENING!!!" And somewhere deep in my soul, the still, quiet voice began screaming "Run, Forrest, RUN!!!"

Arms flailing. Evil swarming. Fastest mile of my life.

I don't want to brag, but I'm pretty sure I broke the world record. Definitely a two-minute mile. You'll just have to take my word for it.

Which loosely translated means “The Gates of Hell”…

Which brings me to today.

I'd just returned from covering the Eucharistic Pilgrimages on the West Coast and was ready to slip back into the peace of my normal routine—which includes a nice, quiet morning run.

It was 6:00 a.m. The first week of summer. The sun was rising. It had rained for days. 85 degrees. 100% humidity. You could feel them out there, like the eerie calm before the horror movie soundtrack starts.

It was the day of the dreaded swamp monsters' return.

I almost gave in to temptation: the treadmill.

The treadmill—the world's great counterfeit. It's got the smooth surface, the 4K display of rolling hills, the little digital screen telling you how "hard" you're working… and a cupholder.

But you're going nowhere. It's just motion. Not transportation.

It's the spiritual equivalent of living without Grace—comfortable, controlled, air-conditioned —but ultimately without a destination.

As Pope Benedict once said: "The world promises you comfort, but you were not made for comfort. You were made for greatness."

And greatness—true greatness—only comes by running the real road. The one that hurts. The one that demands. The one that leads somewhere. The one in which you encounter the little flying demons.

So I laced up my shoes, "baptized" myself in 10 gallons of 100% DEET, and ran straight into the predawn wild.

And they were waiting…

But unlike the blood donation drive of that first run, this time… they recoiled and left, thwarted by the silver-bullet spray I've adopted as armor.

Better living through chemistry, I always say.

As I emerged from the dreaded hellscape that lives under the guise of a wildlife refuge, the sea breeze met me gently from the east, and I watched the sun kiss the horizon good morning at the dawn's first light.

It was breathtaking, as most seaward sunrises are.

But you have to pass through ‘The Gates of Hell’ to get to it.

And therein lies the lesson.

First, that nothing in this life will ever be perfect.

And second, that just like on that five-mile loop, there are stretches of shade where the evil seems to swarm. Places where the air gets thick and the attacks come fast.

And in that, God's Grace—the DEET of the spiritual life—is our armor.

When we're in a state of Grace, when we're living tabernacles of the Blessed Sacrament, we can endure all manner of evil by His Strength. His Love. His Protection.

And we can keep running the race, come what may, running ultimately to our heavenly home and into His loving embrace.

In retrospect, maybe I've been too hard on the brood of bloodsucking airborne vipers. Maybe their pain-inflecting purpose is to point us to Christ in some strange, obscure way.

Maybe they're not all bad after all…

Are you joking?

They're bloody horrific.

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