Parable of the Race
“I gave it all I had. Was it enough?”
Today, I took off the day from everything else to go watch my children, with
all other area elementary school children, run relays. Those who were fast
enough got special ribbons. Each year, every one of my four children
anticipates this day, hoping to be one of the chosen few to get a ribbon.
Having passed NO athletic ability to any of my children, I would not feel
good about putting any pressure on them to perform great track feats. In fact,
I go out of my way to help them understand that “just finishing” is certainly
beyond what I can ask.
Nonetheless, each year, tensions are high – particularly since each runner
has a partner. The partner was picked after timed practices. Unfortunately,
rumor has it that my 8th grader was paired with an excellent 8th grade athlete
who only did poorly on the timed tryout because he had the flu and was throwing
up that day. Word got back to my son that he “better” perform or his partner
would be seriously disappointed. Don’t know how my son took that, but I know it
sure made my stomach flip to hear of the mounting peer pressure….
At any rate, my biggest concern for the day was for my daughter Maya. She is my dear child who has been through complex trauma. Due to delays, at age 8, she is having great difficulty reading. She cannot yet swim because the right-left brain coordination swimming requires is simply not there. In her earlier years, things like running required too much coordination and Maya would simply “drop” when trying to run somewhere. To add to matters, Maya’s seizures had been breaking through for the past few weeks, likely due to her growth spurt.
As I watched the 7-8 year old boys her age run, I could easily see where the problem would be – the baton handoff. Apparently, the coaches of the little ones had not perfected this with them. Several little boys would go to turn the corner and then just walk back into the crowd. Others would go the distance, only to find their partner wasn’t where they thought they’d be. Still others would hand it off in ways that resulted in various humorous bloopers.
In my anxiety to help Maya prepare, I went over to explain the baton handoff. That’s when I first met Maya’s partner, a petite little girl with glasses. For this article, I will call her K.
Maya and K were quite a visual pair. Jennifer, who had been held back a year to get help with reading, towers over her entire class. K, on the other hand, was one of the smaller girls in school. Both of them shared the need for glasses to help them through the school day.
I tried to show Maya how to hand the baton to K. I am not sure I did any good at all, but I felt better doing my part.
As the runners lined up, Maya lined up with them. I silently prayed that she would be able to run without falling, that she would not seizure in the middle of the race, that she could feel good about herself at the end, and a host of other pleadings any mother in a similar situation would try to cram into the 5 or so seconds before the gun went off. When the gun sounded, they were off.
Loads of little girls in a swarm came toward me. I had a perfect position part way down the line to cheer as loud as my mother lungs would cheer. I searched the swarm for my child. Where was she?
Frantically, I searched the swarm again. Where was my Maya? No one was lagging behind, maybe the coach had switched her to the second leg of the race. Thoughts swirled in my mind when, all of the sudden, I saw my confused 8 year old looking around like, “where did everybody go?” She had seizured when the gun went off and had never heard the call to start running.
Undaunted, she looked ahead to the swarm that had recently left her standing still. With her heart and might, she moved her little legs as fast as they would go. I cheered, I yelled, I hoped.
No matter how things ended up, I was proud of the courage it took to run toward the swarm when so many others would have given up. The 7-8 year old girls ran, with Maya trailing behind.
As I cut through the field to get in position for the next part of the run,to my surprise, Maya had run to the front of the pack. She was at fifth place as she ended her part of the race. I could not believe it! She didn’t know enough to know that was impossible (as I clearly knew). She did not know that she had already lost the race before she started (as I surmised when she missed the gun shot entirely). She didn’t have enough sense to give up (as I obviously would have). And, because she didn’t know all those things, she was now running with some of the best runners in her age group.
In the shock of it all, I completely missed the baton handoff. But since K went off running, I am sure it went alright.
As the final runners began, I had no thought, no hope, even no desire for Maya to win the race. It never entered my mind. For all my children, “finishing” was simply enough. For this one in particular, running the race at all was success.
Little did I know, God was teaching me something. He was teaching me a lesson I will not easily forget.
As the runners turned the corner, I was so shocked by what I saw.
There were, of course, the runners everyone knew would win. The ones who were born with natural ability – the ones with mothers who DID pass on some athletic ability to their children. And, then, in the small swarm of leaders, I saw K.
Not only did I see K, but I saw her state of mind. This petite little child was moving her little legs and arms as fast as they would go. The tensed look on her red face said she had run the whole way. Like the little engine that could, K was not going to stop until it was over. She was giving it everything her little body had.
I wanted to stop time. K, like Maya, did not understand. K is a petite little child. K wears glasses like Maya. K is likely not a natural
athlete. Didn’t she know better? Didn’t she know that there was no way that she and her teammate could ever encroach upon natural talent and ability? Didn’t she know that she and her partner were destined not to win before the course was even set? Didn’t she know that her partner had not even started at the gun shot?
All I can say is that K clearly didn’t understand how things worked either. And, because of this, K was now running with the best runners her age. Just because she didn’t understand she couldn’t do it.
As I watched K give every ounce of energy she had in her to passing the finish line, I saw her grandmother go toward her. As her grandma reached out her arms in congratulations, K, with her 7th place ribbon clutched firmly in had, sunk, totally and completely exhausted, into her grandmother’s arms.
Only then, did the tears begin to run. The pain in her side was so severe she could no longer stand. Her body had collapsed. As she reached to entrust her prized ribbon to her grandma, I saw a look in her eyes that I will never forget. Without words, her eyes clearly asked, “I gave all I had, was it enough?”
I gave all I had, was it enough?
I gave all I had, was it enough?
Where had I heard those words? The look, the words, all of it was so familiar. And, then I realized that, in my own way, I ask those words in prayer every single day. As I meet the challenges of raising a child with special needs, as I pray for her to learn to read, as I hope that I am good enough, strong enough for what each day brings, I look up to heaven with the same look that little K gave her grandma. I gave all I had, was it enough?
As K’s grandma assured her that she had far exceeded expectations and carefully cradled her to take her to the school nurse, I was left alone to ponder my standing as a mother. In my intellectual mind, I knew Jennifer and whatever partner she had would have difficulty even finishing the race. When I saw little K, I was at least grateful that K did not appear to be into athletics and probably wouldn’t be mean if Jennifer could not finish the race. Never, never in my wildest dreams did I consider that they might come in 7th place out
of so many entrants.
And, never did I anticipate learning one of the most profound lessons life has to offer. Sometimes those who win are able to do so because they are not smart enough to know they can’t.
Neither Maya nor K understood that their particular limitations, no matter what they were, were too much for them to expect success. Despite numerous setbacks, neither one took note of their perceived standing in the field of athletics. Instead, both of them gave everything they had and, when they crossed the finish line, they were both winners.
I have never watched a greater race, but, more importantly, I have never been taught by greater runners. If I could only become as Maya and little K and forget what the world sees in me or what I see in myself compared to others, what could I accomplish? If I quit viewing my limitations or my child’s special needs as reasons not to try, what race could I run?
Today, two little runners, unknown to the world ran a life changing race and the life that was changed was mine.
Today, I took off the day from everything else to go watch my children, with
all other area elementary school children, run relays. Those who were fast
enough got special ribbons. Each year, every one of my four children
anticipates this day, hoping to be one of the chosen few to get a ribbon.
Having passed NO athletic ability to any of my children, I would not feel
good about putting any pressure on them to perform great track feats. In fact,
I go out of my way to help them understand that “just finishing” is certainly
beyond what I can ask.
Nonetheless, each year, tensions are high – particularly since each runner
has a partner. The partner was picked after timed practices. Unfortunately,
rumor has it that my 8th grader was paired with an excellent 8th grade athlete
who only did poorly on the timed tryout because he had the flu and was throwing
up that day. Word got back to my son that he “better” perform or his partner
would be seriously disappointed. Don’t know how my son took that, but I know it
sure made my stomach flip to hear of the mounting peer pressure….
At any rate, my biggest concern for the day was for my daughter Maya. She is my dear child who has been through complex trauma. Due to delays, at age 8, she is having great difficulty reading. She cannot yet swim because the right-left brain coordination swimming requires is simply not there. In her earlier years, things like running required too much coordination and Maya would simply “drop” when trying to run somewhere. To add to matters, Maya’s seizures had been breaking through for the past few weeks, likely due to her growth spurt.
As I watched the 7-8 year old boys her age run, I could easily see where the problem would be – the baton handoff. Apparently, the coaches of the little ones had not perfected this with them. Several little boys would go to turn the corner and then just walk back into the crowd. Others would go the distance, only to find their partner wasn’t where they thought they’d be. Still others would hand it off in ways that resulted in various humorous bloopers.
In my anxiety to help Maya prepare, I went over to explain the baton handoff. That’s when I first met Maya’s partner, a petite little girl with glasses. For this article, I will call her K.
Maya and K were quite a visual pair. Jennifer, who had been held back a year to get help with reading, towers over her entire class. K, on the other hand, was one of the smaller girls in school. Both of them shared the need for glasses to help them through the school day.
I tried to show Maya how to hand the baton to K. I am not sure I did any good at all, but I felt better doing my part.
As the runners lined up, Maya lined up with them. I silently prayed that she would be able to run without falling, that she would not seizure in the middle of the race, that she could feel good about herself at the end, and a host of other pleadings any mother in a similar situation would try to cram into the 5 or so seconds before the gun went off. When the gun sounded, they were off.
Loads of little girls in a swarm came toward me. I had a perfect position part way down the line to cheer as loud as my mother lungs would cheer. I searched the swarm for my child. Where was she?
Frantically, I searched the swarm again. Where was my Maya? No one was lagging behind, maybe the coach had switched her to the second leg of the race. Thoughts swirled in my mind when, all of the sudden, I saw my confused 8 year old looking around like, “where did everybody go?” She had seizured when the gun went off and had never heard the call to start running.
Undaunted, she looked ahead to the swarm that had recently left her standing still. With her heart and might, she moved her little legs as fast as they would go. I cheered, I yelled, I hoped.
No matter how things ended up, I was proud of the courage it took to run toward the swarm when so many others would have given up. The 7-8 year old girls ran, with Maya trailing behind.
As I cut through the field to get in position for the next part of the run,to my surprise, Maya had run to the front of the pack. She was at fifth place as she ended her part of the race. I could not believe it! She didn’t know enough to know that was impossible (as I clearly knew). She did not know that she had already lost the race before she started (as I surmised when she missed the gun shot entirely). She didn’t have enough sense to give up (as I obviously would have). And, because she didn’t know all those things, she was now running with some of the best runners in her age group.
In the shock of it all, I completely missed the baton handoff. But since K went off running, I am sure it went alright.
As the final runners began, I had no thought, no hope, even no desire for Maya to win the race. It never entered my mind. For all my children, “finishing” was simply enough. For this one in particular, running the race at all was success.
Little did I know, God was teaching me something. He was teaching me a lesson I will not easily forget.
As the runners turned the corner, I was so shocked by what I saw.
There were, of course, the runners everyone knew would win. The ones who were born with natural ability – the ones with mothers who DID pass on some athletic ability to their children. And, then, in the small swarm of leaders, I saw K.
Not only did I see K, but I saw her state of mind. This petite little child was moving her little legs and arms as fast as they would go. The tensed look on her red face said she had run the whole way. Like the little engine that could, K was not going to stop until it was over. She was giving it everything her little body had.
I wanted to stop time. K, like Maya, did not understand. K is a petite little child. K wears glasses like Maya. K is likely not a natural
athlete. Didn’t she know better? Didn’t she know that there was no way that she and her teammate could ever encroach upon natural talent and ability? Didn’t she know that she and her partner were destined not to win before the course was even set? Didn’t she know that her partner had not even started at the gun shot?
All I can say is that K clearly didn’t understand how things worked either. And, because of this, K was now running with the best runners her age. Just because she didn’t understand she couldn’t do it.
As I watched K give every ounce of energy she had in her to passing the finish line, I saw her grandmother go toward her. As her grandma reached out her arms in congratulations, K, with her 7th place ribbon clutched firmly in had, sunk, totally and completely exhausted, into her grandmother’s arms.
Only then, did the tears begin to run. The pain in her side was so severe she could no longer stand. Her body had collapsed. As she reached to entrust her prized ribbon to her grandma, I saw a look in her eyes that I will never forget. Without words, her eyes clearly asked, “I gave all I had, was it enough?”
I gave all I had, was it enough?
I gave all I had, was it enough?
Where had I heard those words? The look, the words, all of it was so familiar. And, then I realized that, in my own way, I ask those words in prayer every single day. As I meet the challenges of raising a child with special needs, as I pray for her to learn to read, as I hope that I am good enough, strong enough for what each day brings, I look up to heaven with the same look that little K gave her grandma. I gave all I had, was it enough?
As K’s grandma assured her that she had far exceeded expectations and carefully cradled her to take her to the school nurse, I was left alone to ponder my standing as a mother. In my intellectual mind, I knew Jennifer and whatever partner she had would have difficulty even finishing the race. When I saw little K, I was at least grateful that K did not appear to be into athletics and probably wouldn’t be mean if Jennifer could not finish the race. Never, never in my wildest dreams did I consider that they might come in 7th place out
of so many entrants.
And, never did I anticipate learning one of the most profound lessons life has to offer. Sometimes those who win are able to do so because they are not smart enough to know they can’t.
Neither Maya nor K understood that their particular limitations, no matter what they were, were too much for them to expect success. Despite numerous setbacks, neither one took note of their perceived standing in the field of athletics. Instead, both of them gave everything they had and, when they crossed the finish line, they were both winners.
I have never watched a greater race, but, more importantly, I have never been taught by greater runners. If I could only become as Maya and little K and forget what the world sees in me or what I see in myself compared to others, what could I accomplish? If I quit viewing my limitations or my child’s special needs as reasons not to try, what race could I run?
Today, two little runners, unknown to the world ran a life changing race and the life that was changed was mine.