I grew up in a family that valued intelligence and creativity. Anything athletic was at the bottom of the heap. The unspoken assumption was that physical activity was for people with no brains. Needless to say, no one in my family played sports. In school I grew up knowing I was going to be one of the last people chosen for a team.

After I got interested in the Science of Christianity and was healed of a back problem that had often put me in a wheelchair, I was vaguely aware that I was still seeing myself as a complete klutz when it came to athletic ability. It didn't bother me much, but I decided that being more active would be good. So, when we got a large dog, I was happy to take her for a walk every day in Seal Bay Park, near where I lived in the Comox Valley, in British Columbia. Our walks through the woodland and a marsh made a great break from sitting at my computer, working.

It wasn't until I decided to apply to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police—involving a truly brutal physical fitness test—that I realized I was going to have to massively upgrade my view of who I was.

The test involved running a timed obstacle course that elevated the heart rate to maximum within half a minute. It required six repetitions of jumping a five-foot ditch, climbing stairs, jumping hurdles, falling or vaulting over a chest-high barrier, pushing and pulling 80-pound weights over a sustained distance. The last part of the test required lifting an 80-pound body bag and carrying it 50 feet without stopping or putting it down.

If an applicant succeeded in passing the physical, she or he also had to be capable of running six miles.

I began my training by affirming that I was a reflection of Spirit. My strength came from this divine source. I was very aware that this ability to gracefully and competently express right activity was going to have to come from God—it certainly didn't have its source in me.

I talked to a trainer, and he set up a weight-training program, floor exercises, and hard cardio-activity that involved both running distances and, later on, running stairs. When I started, I could run 50 feet.

I also regularly made the five-hour trip from my small town to practice the physical test at the Vancouver YMCA.

The first time I ran the obstacle course, my vision started getting black around the edges. I thought I was going to pass out.

These were the real obstacles I had to conquer:

• That I needed a natural ability to be an athlete. Some people had it; others—like me—didn't. I had to take a stand for the joy of motion. It's right to be able to express the fullness of God through motion. This expression is buoyant, joyful, and because it's a reflection of our creator, it's available to everyone impartially—just as everyone has access to the sun. This ability to express spiritual qualities through movement is ours universally.

• That I was too old. The other applicants were all in their twenties. I was twice that. Here I insisted that, as Mary Baker Eddy said, we each represent a spiritual idea, "never born, and ... never dying" (Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures, p. 557). I was eternal. Spirit, which is God, was the ground of my being, and that was unchanging. I could express the qualities of Spirit—vigor, strength, ability—now and always.

• That I was too short. Ninety-nine percent of the other applicants were taller. I'm five feet four inches tall—and the course was set up for people who were at least five feet eight inches tall. People with longer legs found the jumps, stairs, and obstacles easier. The ditch was my real nemesis. With this one, I insisted that grace was part of what I was able to express as the child of God. I made a list of all the spiritual qualities that jumping represented and did my best to express them on a daily basis and in my training.

• That previous injuries were hindering me. Long ago, before I'd even heard of Christian Science, I'd had trouble with one knee. A doctor X-rayed it and said there was extensive damage from arthritis. The medical consensus was that it was always going to give me grief. This knee did in fact act up during my running sessions. I handled this not by ignoring the pain, but by denying its right to exist under divine law. Instead I tried to be receptive and listen to the good thoughts that my Maker was giving me.

I took a stand for the absolute rightness involved in being able to do any strenuous thing I chose to. I would do it through Spirit's strength. For the first time I began to understand what it meant to do something for the glory of God. It meant that it wasn't me waving a mortal sense of self and accomplishment, but me humbly praying to know there is only "one I, or Us" (Science and Health, p. 588). This "I"—Spirit—doesn't feel pain, is never incapacitated, but overflows with vitality and well-being. Each time my knee acted up, and there were many times, I mentally corrected it specifically, by seeing my ability as coming from God.

This was wonderful protection. Only twice did small training injuries arise. I tried not to push, but to listen for what was peaceful; to detect thoughts of limitation, discouragement, and pain; and to reject them with the flexible, strong thoughts God was giving me. Once, this mental practice led me to change a stretching exercise I'd been assigned that caused pain in my quadriceps.

Month after month I'd train, go to the city to run the course, and not pass it. My family didn't expect I ever would. I prayed specifically to not be fearful.

Though the course continued to terrify me, I could see the progress I was making in running and endurance. I'd gone from 50 feet at a time—puff, puff, and then walk another two minutes—to two 5-mile runs and one 6.6-mile run per week. No stopping anymore. Every week was filled with spiritual victories over one inability or another. More than anything else I've ever wanted in my life, I wanted to pass that physical. I often thought about the Bible verse, "For by thee I have run through a troop; and by my God have I leaped over a wall" (Ps. 18:29).

I'd asked for one extension and been granted it. Finally the last opportunity came for me to run the course. It was make-or-break time. I'd been working with a Christian Science practitioner who I knew had been involved in competitive athletic activities, and we'd been really praying not to see this as a physical challenge but as a spiritual one. And I could feel my thought yielding to that idea. I was really opening up to the good that I was being given. That last time I ran the course, I could feel that good sweeping through me with the energy of a river. As I ran, I was saying, "Thank you, Father, thanks," the whole way.

And I passed.

Ironically, I didn't end up going on to a job with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. But every week my dog and I continue to run at the same level we did then. We love it!