This morning we got up extra early. I hadn’t slept well, and I didn’t really want to get up, but I did.
Every year for several years my husband and occasionally myself and other family members have run a race called the Freedom Run for the 4th of July. This was the first year that my oldest daughter had signed up for the 5k with her dad. My second-oldest daughter wanted to do the one-mile, so (several months ago) I agreed to do it with her.
But last night I was dreading it. Sleep is precious to me these days, and I wasn’t sure if I even had the strength to go that one mile. But I knew how excited my daughter was. And I knew I couldn’t let her down.
So I got up. And we got ready. And we went to the race.
We arrived just as the one-mile race was beginning, so we rushed to the start. And for a mile, I ran (very slowly) with my daughter out ahead of me, saying, “Come on, Mom. You can do it!” Over and over.
I couldn’t help thinking how fitting it was. It was hard, and I didn’t really want to do it, but it was the light and strength of my daughter that kept me putting one foot in front of the other.
Even now, as I look at the clock and see that it’s only 9:53 a.m. and see that there are so many hours left in this day, hours upon hours to endure until I can go back to the forgetfulness of sleep, it is the light and strength of my children who keep me putting one foot in front of the other. It is their enthusiasm for life that reminds me that I once had enthusiasm of my own. It gives me a tiny sliver of hope that I’ll find that enthusiasm again.
I pray it comes soon.