I ran 19.3 miles at Walt Disney World last weekend and felt fine.

Three races across three days - the 5K, the 10K, the 10-Miler. I crossed the finish line strong each morning. I walked the parks with Andrew each afternoon. I flew home with five medals and no complaints.

Then on Saturday morning, I ran a local 5K - the Kellsie's Hope race - and pushed too hard. I didn't listen to my body, and by the time I crossed the finish line, something was wrong.

By that afternoon, I could barely walk.

Runner's knee. Pain around the kneecap, aggravated by stairs, by bending, by the simple act of getting up from a chair. I've spent the last several days learning how to manage it - ice, elevation, compression, anti-inflammatories  some light PT exercises to help recover and prevent, and most of all: rest.

Rest is hard for me. I don't do slow well.

But slow is what I've been given this week. I'm in Fort Worth for the National Association of Deacon Directors Convention, exhibiting for Deacon Life and Domus. My hotel is two blocks from the convention center. Two blocks is normally nothing - a quick walk, barely worth noticing.

This week, it's a journey. I'm walking slower than I ever have. Each step deliberate. Each step felt.

Here's what I'm learning:

I'm suddenly able to relate to the older parishioners I serve - the ones who move carefully, who grip the pew for balance, who take a few extra minutes to get into the church. I've always been patient with them and listened carefully as they speak of their pains, but now I understand them differently. I understand what it costs them just to show up.

And I'm finding that forced slowness creates space for prayer.

When you can't rush, you notice things. When each step requires attention, you become present. I've been offering each step for someone - a family member, a friend, an intention someone asked me to carry, one of the parishioners who I know carries similar pains. It's not the dramatic suffering of the saints, or even the ongoing suffering of some I know. It's just a sore knee. But even small suffering can become prayer if you let it.

St. Paul talks about "filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ" - a mysterious phrase that suggests our small sufferings can be united to his great one. I don't fully understand how that works. But I know that offering my limping walk to the convention center feels different than rushing there while checking my phone.

I pushed too hard and didn't listen to my body. That's the simple version of what happened.

But maybe there's something else here too. Maybe I needed to be slowed down. Maybe I needed to feel, even briefly, what so many people feel every day. Maybe I needed to learn that two blocks can be a pilgrimage if you walk them with intention.

I'll heal. The knee will get better. I'll run again - more carefully next time, I hope.

But I don't want to forget what this week taught me. The humility of needing to go slow. The prayer that happens when you can't rush. The solidarity with everyone whose body makes them work for every step.

Slower steps. Offered steps.

Maybe that's enough for now.