When I was a freshman I attended Bethel College in Indiana. I was there on a track scholarship and had, by all of my preconceived notions, "made it."

Track was my life, and in many forms it is still one of my fondest memories and deepest regrets. I dedicated six years of my being to it. Since transferring to Andrews University, where there is no track team, I have lost a tiny piece of who I am, though I've gained a much greater sense of who I will become.

At the end of my freshman year at Bethel, I qualified for Christian Nationals in the women's 4x400m relay. If you're unfamiliar with track, the 4x400m relay involves four athletes who each run one lap around the track and pass the baton to the next teammate. I was nervous, injured, and had a pretty good idea that I would transfer to Andrews in the fall, making that relay the last race of my life.

I wanted to leave the sport a legend in my own mind. I knew I'd never be an Olympic runner, but I could win that last race. In fact, I believed I should win. We were ranked sixth; and we had practiced hard. I had spent the past six years preparing for just that moment, and it had come. I was at the meet with a college scholarship to do the sport I loved. It was Nationals, where the best athletes in that specific event in the entire nation gathered, and I was, in that moment, fulfilling a dream.

When the gun blared, the first leg of our relay took off and gave us a strong start. Even now as I write, I feel my heart begin to skip a beat as my mind takes me back. I was the third leg, so I watched two of my team members run their course before relying on me to do my part. When it was my turn, I felt the metal of the baton push into my hand, and I took off. My arms pumped as hard as I had ever forced them to move, and my legs felt sturdy. I sprinted as fast as I could for the first 60 meters, and then I pulled back.

I pulled back because the 400 is one of the hardest races to run, and I was extremely nervous about running out of steam and dying out on the last straight-a-way of the track (it's happened before). I pulled back, and let people pass me. I paced myself and waited for that last 150m where I would sprint into the finish line. My eyes hit my mark, and I took off as hard and powerful as possible. I felt the wind bite my face as I started to gain back the ground I had lost. The last few meters came, and I handed the baton to the finishing leg, and then I sat down and cried.

I cried because I didn't fall to my knees at the end. I didn't collapse. I didn't even feel that weak. I cried because I had saved too much. It was the last race I would ever run, and I didn't leave everything I had on that track. I cried because my adrenaline was so physically powerful that I could have run a whole other lap. I cried because in that moment I knew that "better safe then sorry" was for losers.

To this day that race makes me shudder. It stings my pride worse then the time I got disqualified at my state track meet in high school, and worse than the time I tripped over my own shoelace in eighth grade and got that scar on my right knee. It even hurt worse than my first outdoor college meet, when I needed to show my coaches what I was made of, and pushed my body so hard that I died out, threw up on the finish line, and still got last place. You see, this one takes the cake not because we were defeated; I had been beat before. But because this time, I defeated myself.

The reason I tell this story isn't to bask in my glory days, or even to instill some lifelong lesson of tenacity. I tell you this story to show you my biggest fear in life—playing it "too safe" when it comes to God's mission for me.

At the end of this world, I want to look back and know I left it all on the track. I want to be exhausted, I want to be empty, and I want to collapse into His arms one day and know that I left no rock unturned. I challenge you to save nothing. Don't hold back anything when it comes to your loved ones, and Him. They may have their gates, but you may be their drawbridge. If you have your devotions every morning, and your vespers every evening, even better! Just make sure you are always giving away just as much of Him as you are taking in.

I'll leave you with this thought: sometimes, the closest to God someone else is going to get is you. And I can tell you one thing, Jesus was still preaching at His own crucifixion. My God saves nothing.

Heather Thompson is a senior journalism and communications major at Andrews University.