Connie Maringa

It’s Medal Monday and I’m happy to present my #ComradesMarathon2024 & first up run medal. A Bill Rowan. Proud to also say it’s a Comrades PB!🍾🥂➡️Philippians 4:13 🙏🏾 #Nakanjani #NoDoubt #IPaintedMyRun #FitMom #RedSkippa #FatCatsAC #TrapnLos #SkhindiGang #RunningWithTumiSole

@collen_sambo2 Wow 🤣🤣🤣

The question is can you run a 5km in less than 30 minutes. If the answer is yes with your running stats as proof we can take it from there 🤗😂

@autocorrect2_0 Boom! 👌🏾

Truth is often unpleasant.

@Biblicalman Beautiful. Amen ❤️🙏🏾

Jesus rose from the dead and the first person He went to was His brother who thought He was crazy. Not Peter. Not John. Not the twelve. James. His kid brother. The one who grew up sharing a room with God and didn’t know it. Think about James for a second. His older brother is Jesus. Not “Jesus the Christ.” Not “Jesus the Savior.” Jesus the guy who worked in the carpenter shop and came home smelling like sawdust and sweat. Jesus who snored. Jesus who ate too fast. Jesus who their mother treated different and James never understood why. Because Mary kept her mouth shut. Luke 2:19. She kept all these things and pondered them in her heart. Angels showed up at His birth. Shepherds fell on their faces. Wise men brought gold. And Mary told nobody. She just watched her firstborn grow up in a ghetto in Nazareth and kept the secret in her chest like a coal she couldn’t put down. James didn’t know his brother was God. He knew his brother was weird. He knew his mother looked at Jesus different. He knew Joseph moved the whole family to Egypt when they were little and never fully explained why. He knew that one time his parents lost Jesus at the temple and found Him three days later arguing with rabbis like He owned the place. Twelve years old. Already gone. Then Jesus grew up. Worked the shop. Paid the bills. Because Joseph died — the Bible doesn’t say when but Joseph disappears from the story — and in Jewish custom the eldest son takes over. So Jesus wasn’t posing for paintings in that carpenter shop. He was feeding His family. Putting bread on the table for His mom and His brothers and sisters in a town so poor Nathanael said “can anything good come out of Nazareth?” Then one day He left. Walked away from the shop. Walked away from the family. Left James holding the hammer and the bills and the responsibility for a widowed mother. James was pissed. Mark 3:21. His own family went to collect Him because they said He was out of His mind. That’s James. That’s the brothers. Showing up to bring the crazy one home before He embarrasses the family worse. John 7:5. His brethren did not believe in Him. His own blood. Ate dinner with Him for thirty years. Didn’t believe. Then Wednesday happened. The brother James thought was insane got arrested at night by temple guards. Got beaten until His face swelled shut. Got whipped until His back looked like raw meat. Got nailed to wood and hung up on a garbage hill outside the city. And James had to stand somewhere — maybe in the crowd, maybe at home, maybe hearing it secondhand — and process the fact that the brother he called crazy just died like a criminal. Three days and nights of silence. Three days of James sitting with the guilt of every eye roll. Every argument. Every time he told people “I don’t know what’s wrong with Him.” Every time he showed up to drag Jesus home because He was embarrassing the family name. Then Sunday morning. Jesus rose. Conquered death. Walked out of the tomb. And He went to James. 1 Corinthians 15:7. He appeared to James. Not in a crowd. Not at a distance. He went to His brother. The one who didn’t believe. The one who thought He was crazy. The one who was pissed that He left the family behind. He showed up and let James see the holes in His hands. Matthew 28:10. Go tell my brethren. Not my servants. Not my followers. My brethren. John 20:17. My Father and your Father. My God and your God. He rose to the highest position in the universe and His vocabulary didn’t change. Most men get a promotion and stop returning phone calls. Jesus conquered death and called the brother who doubted Him family. James went from “He’s out of His mind” to leading the church in Jerusalem. James went from trying to drag Jesus home to writing a book of the Bible. James went from skeptic to martyr. They threw him off the temple wall and when he survived the fall they beat him to death with a club. He died for the brother he once thought was insane. That’s what happened when Jesus showed up after the resurrection and said brother. One word changed everything. He’s not calling you servant today. He’s not calling you subject. He’s calling you what He called James. Brother. The same James who didn’t believe. Who rolled his eyes. Who showed up to take Him home. Who sat in the dark for three days choking on regret. He went to THAT guy first. If He went to James, He’ll come to you.

@SindiOmuhle His u-turn killed me🤣🤣🤣

@TshiiPree @GamsahabnidaL What is he running away for?

@Didi_Mmusi 👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾🎉🎉🎉🎉

recovery run went a little like this at the Joburg City 10km race and the title was successfully defended. dankie mpilo! ✌🏾🥇❤️ #RunningWithTumiSole #RunningWithSoleAC #FetchYourBody2026

@Akhona_Khanya I’m not laughing😂🤣😂🤣

@_tsholila Did you just say Table Mountain?😫😭😂

My colleague accidentally entered for the Sanlam Cape Town Marathon Trail (22KM). She's never ran before😭😭🤣

@Akhona_Khanya Oh my word I’ve done this before, didn’t even know what ‘trail’ meant… we started on the road, to my surprise after a few metres we went off-road🤣🤣🤣🤣 and I was like haibo, and then?! 😂😂 🙆🏾‍♀️ Tell your colleague to enjoy it! 🤣🤣🤣

@xanderesho @KeruboSk Happy Birthday 🥳

@KeruboSk Mine is actually today, March 12

The challenge is to find someone born on the same date as you.. Let's go! Me: September 28th

@TheresaArueyin1 Amen

The fact that sin bothers you, is actually a good sign. It means God is working in you. A heart that cares about turning away from sin is a heart God is actively transforming. It’s proof His Spirit is alive in you. If you understand this, drop an “Amen.” 🙏🏾

@Habo_HB 🔥🔥🔥👏🏾👏🏾👏🏾

M E D A L M O N D A Y Went to try the marathon distance again in search of a sub 3h30/PB and with the help of the running community surrounding me, I can finally say we done did it💙🤍 Forever grateful for the support and words of encouragement 🙏🏽 #HanyaneHanyane #MedalMonday

@jbcalaway @MrPitbull07 I also initially read verse 8 😅Either way, the Lord is good 🙌🏾🙏🏾😊

Haha! I read the verse as Psalm 34:8 instead of 18. Verse 8 reads :O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in him. Maybe that would have been a better fit for your order that day. After reading your reply, I am convinced that you may have been on your period. Get over yourself.

@ediddy1979 @edgaralandough Wow♥️

@edgaralandough When Jesus tells the wicked servants depart from me, I never knew you; he was speaking about knowing in the same capacity that Mary did not know a man God wants an intimate relationship of course God knows who you are!

Drop some DEEP biblical knowledge. Share something that took your faith to the next level. I want to have my mind blown.

@Sifisov1 Love it. 😂😂🥰🥰

Did he lie though?

@TechChiefsZA I think that twist on the paper killed me more than anything 🤣🤣😂😂 Can’t stop replaying it😂

@Am_Blujay He's a high class performer. It's just the floor papers inserting their own effects

I would laugh shame 😂

@ThomasBlazin @Gubloinvestor I thought I was the only one that saw that🤣🤣🤣 Iran right?

@Gubloinvestor Steffan Dimera 🤦🏽‍♂️

If Trump was born in other countries 😄

@mikemina04 @Ihunanya_chi He helps me find things I misplace or can’t easily find on my own ALL THE TIME 🥰😁 It’s never too small or too “stupid” for me to ask.

@Ihunanya_chi A few years ago I lost a bunch of keys and couldn't find them. After 3 days of intense searching I almost gave up and that is when the Holy Spirit asked me " Have you asked me where the keys are?". I enquired from Him and He sure directed me to the keys were. 🙌

The Holy Spirit is Our Friend 🥰 One day, I was very hungry and feeling really sick. I had a bad headache and was so tired that I wanted to sleep. But I couldn’t sleep because I was too hungry, and I was all alone at home. I dragged myself to the kitchen, peeled some yam, and put it on fire. After that, I returned to my room. The moment I lay down, my eyes began to close. I was so weak. But with the little strength I had, I whispered a prayer to the Holy Spirit “Please wake me up when the yam is ready. I don’t want it to burn, and I can’t stay awake to watch it.” And just like that, I dozed off.😅 A few minutes later, I suddenly heard my name very clearly. I woke up and looked around, wondering who called me. Then I remembered the yam! I rushed to the kitchen, and just as I had asked, the water had dried up and the yam was perfectly cooked not burnt. I smiled and remembered what I said to the Holy Spirit. He really did wake me up. He called my name! The Holy Spirit is truly a friend who cares. 🥰😍 What is your own experience with the Holy spirit?

@optimalfocus @ChrisChavez He won 😊 (see results from @ESPNRun)

@ChrisChavez If the other guy didn’t wear a benie he’d win

More marathon photo finishes! 🏁 Watch the epic conclusion to today’s Sevilla Marathon between Ethiopia’s Asrar Hiyrden and Shura Kitata…and they both get under 2:04!

@Excellentsalvic Amen

If you believe Jesus rose from the grave, put Amen

@mazichamp 🫂❤️‍🩹

@jpattueyi JP, this just got me emotional. It's not been the same since my dad left this world, and I really really miss him. Even as a grown adult man with my own family, it hasn't changed how much I miss him.

Every Sunday at exactly 3:17 p.m., my father called me. Not 3:15. Not 3:20. 3:17. It started a month after he retired. At first, I thought it was boredom. Then habit. Then aging. But it never changed. If I picked up, he’d say the same thing: “Are you home?” If I said yes, he’d reply, “Good. Just checking,” and hang up. If I said no, there’d be a pause. Then he’d say, “Alright. Call me when you’re back.” That was it. No small talk. No updates. No “how are you?” Just… checking. My wife thought it was sweet. I thought it was strange. One Sunday, I decided not to answer. I was home. I just let it ring. At 3:18 p.m., he called again. I ignored it. At 3:19 p.m., my wife’s phone rang. She frowned. “It’s your dad.” I gestured for her not to answer. The phone stopped. At 3:21 p.m., the landline rang. No one even has that number. We stared at it. It stopped after five rings. At 3:24 p.m., someone knocked on the door. Three sharp knocks. Not aggressive. Precise. I opened it. My father stood there. Calm. Neatly dressed. Slightly out of breath. “Why didn’t you answer?” he asked. “I was busy.” He looked past me into the living room. “You’re home.” “Yes.” He nodded slowly. Then said something he’d never said before. “Good.” And he left. That night, I drove to his house. I needed to understand. He lived alone since my mother passed. Same house I grew up in. Same curtains. He opened the door before I knocked. “You came,” he said. “Dad, why do you call every Sunday?” He studied me for a moment. “Come in.” We sat at the dining table. He didn’t speak immediately. He rarely does. Finally, he stood up and walked to a locked drawer in the hallway. He pulled out a thin folder. Inside were newspaper clippings. House fires. Robberies. Gas leaks. Carbon monoxide deaths. All circled in red. “Every single one,” he said quietly, “happened on a Sunday afternoon.” I blinked. “That doesn’t mean..” He held up a hand. “When your mother died, I was in the garden.” I swallowed. “I was ten feet away. Ten feet. She called once. I didn’t hear her.” Silence stretched between us. “I promised myself,” he continued, “that if something ever happened to you, I would not be in the garden.” My chest tightened. “So you call me to make sure I’m alive?” He looked at me steadily. “No.” A long pause. “I call to make sure you answer.” I frowned. “What’s the difference?” He leaned back in his chair. “If you answer, I know you can.” The words didn’t land immediately. Then they did. “If you couldn’t answer,” he continued calmly, “I would already be driving.” My stomach dropped. “You’ve been ready to come over every Sunday?” “Yes.” “Even when I said I wasn’t home?” He nodded. “I wait ten minutes. Then I check.” A cold realization crept up my spine. “Dad… how many times have you come?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked toward the window. “Six.” Six Sundays. Six times he drove to my house. Six times he must have stood outside. Watching. Making sure. I tried to laugh it off. “That’s extreme.” He didn’t smile. “You think emergencies schedule appointments?” We sat there in heavy silence. Then I asked the question that had been building all evening. “Why 3:17?” For the first time, his composure cracked. “That’s the time on the hospital clock,” he said softly, “when they told me she was gone.” The air left my lungs. He wasn’t checking on me. He was trying to outrun a minute. Every Sunday. For years. I drove home that night differently. The following Sunday at 3:16 p.m., my phone was in my hand. At 3:17, it rang. I answered on the first vibration. “Hi Dad.” There was a pause. Then, for the first time ever, he said something new. “I know.” And he hung up.

@AmazingRico87 @weloverww 🤣🤣

@weloverww The woman in the leopard shirt killing time with all that zig zagging 😂

The woman in pink 😂