Last week in Milan, Italy, during the Winter Olympics snowboarding event, a 17-year-old Korean athlete, Gaon Choi, won the gold medal.
Her victory did not come easily. She failed twice and suffered fractures in several bones. It was the kind of moment when most people would step away. Yet later she shared something simple and powerful: she realized she could still move her toes.
It began there.
With that small movement, she slowly lifted herself. She stood up again. She stepped back onto the board. And in time, she stood on the podium.
Jesus once told His disciples that faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains. I find myself wondering if mustard-seed faith looks something like this — not dramatic confidence or flawless strength, but the willingness to move, even slightly, after a fall.
Mustard-seed faith is not certainty without doubt.
It is not a life without failure.
It is not instant success.
It is simply the courage to begin again — starting with the toes.
In 1910, Theodore Roosevelt delivered a speech at the Sorbonne in France, where he spoke of “the man in the arena.” He reminded his listeners that credit does not belong to the critic, but to the one who steps into the arena — whose face is marked by dust, sweat, and blood, who strives, who fails, who dares greatly.
Only those who have stood in the arena truly understand its cost.
Perhaps that is why Chloe Kim, the American snowboarder who had already won two Olympic gold medals and was expected to win a third, could respond with such grace. She won silver instead. Yet when Gaon Choi fell, Chloe went to her to offer encouragement. And when Gaon won gold, Chloe celebrated with her.
There was something profoundly beautiful in that moment. It reflected the heart of someone who understands what it means to be in the arena.
The church, too, has its arena.
There are those who watch from a distance, evaluating and commenting. But there is a depth of faith known only to those who walk into the arena when things are difficult — when the work is unseen, when the burden is heavy.
Last week, one of our church member, who faithfully volunteers for the most challenging tasks, became ill. A few days later, another devoted servant sent a message saying she would rest from early morning prayer for a week because she was exhausted from carrying so much.
I told each of them to rest well. I said, “Your health is the future of our church.”
They may never receive public recognition. They may never stand on a podium. But they are always in the arena. In the race of faith, they continue to show up. And I am confident that the Lord sees them.
God often moves mountains not through grand gestures, but through those who are willing to move their toes after they have fallen.
It may not be a gold-medal day.
It may not be a perfect season.
But when we begin again — with a small prayer, a small step, a renewed willingness to enter the arena — perhaps that is where mountains begin to move.
And perhaps that is what toe-moving faith truly is.
