Years ago I set a marathon course record—I ran the Atlantic City Marathon in 3 hours 12 minutes, winning the masters’ race (women over 40) and finishing third among all women.

As I look back, it’s clear that this didn’t just happen. It was a competitive race, and I recall training long and hard for it. And in the end all those hours on the road paid off. I had lowered my personal best by 12 minutes and emerged a winner. But winning races was never my motivation for running.

I’ve been running pretty much every day for more than 35 years. For most of those years, my running has been a private, early morning activity. I don’t talk about it. I just go out and do it. Even during the 15 or so years when I was competing, I ran mainly for the joy of running. I liked to run, simple as that. Racing and winning trophies were just icing on the cake for me. It was the daily activity of running that I loved, and still do—hitting the road day after day, without regard for expected limits.

Then, some years back, I encountered an obstacle I wasn’t sure how to negotiate.

I had taken up another serious pursuit, which captivated my attention from the start—I began studying Christian Science. What I was learning, on this spiritual path, about my relationship with God was expansive and invigorating, strengthening every area of my life. As I studied, I began to pay less attention to materiality and more to my inherent spiritual nature.

So I wondered, where did running fit into this new view? Was running too materialistic for a Christian Scientist? Were the two mutually exclusive? Did running require so much focus on the physical body that it would limit my spiritual growth?

The simple fact that I liked running was no longer enough. My spiritual quest had yielded a new sense of inner peace and a wider, more inclusive love for those around me. Through my study of Christian Science, I was dropping unwanted character traits and experiencing physical healing. The more I learned about my innate spirituality, the less willing I was to let anything inhibit my spiritual progress. If running was going to hold me back, then I was willing to let it go.

So I took a hard look at my reasons for running. Was I running to maintain a certain weight? Was I running to stay healthy and prevent disease? Did I run to relieve stress? Was I addicted to the “runner’s high”? Was I simply stuck in a routine?

In my heart of hearts, the answer to all of those questions was “No.” Then why did I run?

As I pondered this question of motives, two statements I read formed the basis of what eventually became my answer. The first was from Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures by Mary Baker Eddy: “The talents He gives we must improve” (p. 6). The second was from the Bible: “Whether therefore ye eat, or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God” (I Cor. 10:31).

Then one morning, the answer came to me vividly, in these words: I run because I can.

Running is one of my talents. God gave me this talent, and it would be wrong not to use it. I’m a runner. It’s part of my unique identity. I’m good at it. It comes naturally. As I run, I glorify God by expressing His qualities—such as strength, joy, discipline, consistency, reliability.

From that newfound spiritual basis, I began my run each morning by giving thanks for the ability to use this talent to express my Godlike nature. And as a result, my experience of running changed. Where it once had been a quiet time just for me, to commune with God, I found I no longer wanted to turn inward, lost in my thoughts. Instead—and I know this may sound corny—I began to make a conscious effort each day to spread love and happiness up and down the streets of my community. This was as simple as saying “Good morning” to everyone I passed.

This outward focus elicited some unexpected feedback. In the little upstate New York town where I lived at the time, I became known as “the runner.” People commented that seeing me out there with such regularity inspired them to adopt a more persistent attitude in areas that were important in their lives. I knew what they saw in me was actually God’s constancy and reliability shining through. Others said they looked forward to my unfailing cheerfulness, in all kinds of weather, and they missed me when I wasn’t there. I recognized that as Love’s joy, embracing all mankind. Their responses, in turn, motivated me. On the days when I didn’t much feel like running, I recalled the joy I could bring to others out on the road, and the desire to give got me out the door.

So this answer brought peace. Running from this basis does not oppose spiritual growth. It enhances it. For me, the answer is simple, yet profound—I run because I can.