Photos taken of you while running should be illegal.

Lungs heaving, cheeks burning, hair slicked back with sweat, Mickey Mouse ear warmer wrapped around my somehow still frizzy ponytail, and too-big race jersey making me look like a wheezing blob… I crossed the finish line of a 5k this Saturday. I have the humiliating photo and shin splints to prove it.

One of my friends crossed seconds before I did, and we both met up, bent over, debating between collapsing in the cold mud from our exertion, swearing, or simply leaving without our medals and swearing off races for good. After all the gorgeous weather we’d had, the race had to be on the chilliest day in weeks.

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever done,” my friend gasped, “I feel like I might throw up.”

“I’ve had hangovers that didn’t hurt this bad and were way more fun to earn.” I quipped.

We remained in the humbling state of wheezing and coughing for a few minutes, then we began laughing at our own misery. We checked the time and found out that we’d both run better 5ks than we expected. We cheered our other two friends across the finish line, even went back and ran the last stretch again with one of them.

I never thought runner’s high was real, but on the way to lunch afterward, we all agreed to sign up for another race. The brief insanity, I have to believe, is a distant relative of a woman who’s “forgotten” the labor pains agreeing to have another kid.

For the first 3/4 mile of the race, I was going strong. I was feeling pretty good. Then it took longer to spot the one-mile marker than I expected and at the same time we hit a hill. Then I started to fade. The question popped into my head that remained on repeat for the rest of the race: “Is it over yet?”

It’s a question we all ask when the suffering begins.

Burning calves. Aching joints. Popping knees. Is it over yet?

Breaking heart. Doused dreams. Sleepless nights. Is it over yet?

Hopeless news articles. Stock market crash. Lost jobs. Is it over yet?

I wondered, briefly, if Jesus asked himself that question. Friend’s betrayal. Last meal. Trek to the garden. Is it over yet? Knees buckling as he bent to pray. Beads of sweat like blood running down his face. Begging for the cup to be taken from him. Is it over yet? First beating. Crown of thorns. Mocking. Is it over yet? Kangaroo trial. Blasphemy. The journey to Golgotha.

I saw a crucifix at an Italian Catholic church in Boston that struck me as unique, because the wounds on Jesus’ knees were so defined. His knees were completely covered in blood. I’d never seen one like it, but it made me think of all the times he must have landed on them to pray or receive his torture or the weight of the cross.

There’s a kind of hopelessness in a question like, “Is it over yet?” You can’t predict or measure the future, so there’s no way to know. There’s no promise of the pain or suffering ever ending, and when times are dark enough it seems quite possible that it won’t. It also acknowledges our own weakness to end the hurt ourselves. In our journey of suffering, we find ourselves wheezing, gasping, ugly and weak, learning about crevices of our soul we’d rather not become acquainted with, hoping against hope it will all be over soon.

But that hurt, in body and mind, was shared by our Lord.

I’m not often one to reference John Calvin, but I heard a quote recently that struck me as quite profound. It’s from some writings of his that defend Christ’s descent into Hell as an important part of the creed. He said, “And surely, unless his soul shared in the punishment, he would have been the redeemer of bodies alone. But he had to struggle to lift up those who lay prostrate. His goodness—never sufficiently praised—shines in this: he did not shrink from taking our weaknesses upon himself.”

He did not shrink from taking our weaknesses—of body, mind, or spirit— upon himself. Gasping for breath while asphyxiating on the cross, pushing himself up with his bloodied knees for a final breath that he used to cry out, “It is finished.”

All that time, asking if it’s over yet. And he has already declared it finished.

Our suffering, be it chosen in discipline or given to us in sanctification or thrust upon us in the throes of a desperate and broken world, comes with a promise. It is already finished. He experienced it with and for us. And better than that, Christ redeemed it for us. He made it new. He made it worth our while, and then some.

You are not a body alone. You are also a mind, a soul, a person questioning when it will all be over. In him it’s not just over, it’s beginning anew. In him, the labor pains are forgotten, and we are redeemed.

Is it over yet?

Dear friends in Christ, it is finished.