Running Our Race: Some Perspective
Most of our weekends are either A) packed with recreation, B) full of chores and errands, C) a travel log of another temple trip, or D) a combination of all three. Some times our weekend activities give me an opportunity to write about something a little more important than mentioning that we ate at Applebee's and ordered the Quesadilla Burger—again. This was one of those weekends.
In an effort to be more involved in our community, our ward set up a volunteer opportunity with the Missouri chapter of the Special Olympics. Brookie and I signed up for the early session and pulled into the parking lot 20 minutes before our 9:00a.m.-12:00p.m. 'shift.' We were the first ones from our group to arrive, and we didn't know what to do. As more ward members came, our group grew from the two of us to over a dozen people (if you're counting the kids)—but we still didn't know what to do.
The first 15-20 minutes of our volunteer experience was spent huddled in a circle wondering who we needed to speak with. There had been one woman that recognized us (as in, acknowledging our presence, not, "Oh hi. Weren't you in my sophomore English class?") and told us she could use us, but she took a smaller group with her to the other end of the track. After a while, Brookie and I went to find her and we relocated our group to be able to help with the next race. But, when the next race came and went, and they didn't need our help, we were right back where we had been: not knowing what to do, but more than willing to help. That's when another woman grabbed our group and asked if we could help with the wheelchair events by keeping time and recording the results.
Four of us were given stop watches and a race sheet for each participant. The first race was the 10 meter/non-motorized race. There were three individuals racing, all with varying degrees of disability. Myself and two more volunteers from our group stood at the finish line with our stop watches in hand.
Everything that is wrong with youth athletics becomes obvious when you attend a Special Olympics event because of what is missing. There are no overzealous parents berating officials. No unsportsman-like conduct or trash-talking from the athletes. The atmosphere at this sporting event is different, and it's palpable. Everywhere you looked you saw supportive parents and families, eager volunteers, and excited athletes. But I think it was during the second race that I noticed something deeper.
It was a 25 meter race. There were two or three contestants that were doing their best to stay within the small yellow cones designating their lanes on their way to the finish line. All but one of the racers had finished the event, and the remaining athlete was struggling to move her wheelchair at all. By the time she was half way through the race, I could tell she was worn out. But she didn't stop.
And that's my point.
Despite the difficulty of her race, she didn't stop. Inch by inch, her father walking backwards, staying a few steps in front of her, proudly encouraging her and snapping pictures the whole time, this woman kept moving forward. As I watched, cheering for her along with everyone else, it occurred to me that my trials are petty by comparison. That Saturday morning I witnessed real endurance, in more ways than one.
It's no secret that we all have challenges and obstacles in ours lives. It's probably natural to compare our own trials to those of others, and when we do, we might find that this person's trials are harder than mine, or that couples's trials are easier than ours. But in the end, trials are relative. The point is that we keep going.
We run our races and our friends and family are there to encourage us (and sometimes snap our pictures), and we are there cheering them on for their races. Some races are sprints, some are marathons, and some are those weird steeple chase things. Examples of enduring well are all around us and I'm glad to have bumped into so many this weekend.
Go to the board!
In an effort to be more involved in our community, our ward set up a volunteer opportunity with the Missouri chapter of the Special Olympics. Brookie and I signed up for the early session and pulled into the parking lot 20 minutes before our 9:00a.m.-12:00p.m. 'shift.' We were the first ones from our group to arrive, and we didn't know what to do. As more ward members came, our group grew from the two of us to over a dozen people (if you're counting the kids)—but we still didn't know what to do.
The first 15-20 minutes of our volunteer experience was spent huddled in a circle wondering who we needed to speak with. There had been one woman that recognized us (as in, acknowledging our presence, not, "Oh hi. Weren't you in my sophomore English class?") and told us she could use us, but she took a smaller group with her to the other end of the track. After a while, Brookie and I went to find her and we relocated our group to be able to help with the next race. But, when the next race came and went, and they didn't need our help, we were right back where we had been: not knowing what to do, but more than willing to help. That's when another woman grabbed our group and asked if we could help with the wheelchair events by keeping time and recording the results.
Four of us were given stop watches and a race sheet for each participant. The first race was the 10 meter/non-motorized race. There were three individuals racing, all with varying degrees of disability. Myself and two more volunteers from our group stood at the finish line with our stop watches in hand.
Everything that is wrong with youth athletics becomes obvious when you attend a Special Olympics event because of what is missing. There are no overzealous parents berating officials. No unsportsman-like conduct or trash-talking from the athletes. The atmosphere at this sporting event is different, and it's palpable. Everywhere you looked you saw supportive parents and families, eager volunteers, and excited athletes. But I think it was during the second race that I noticed something deeper.
It was a 25 meter race. There were two or three contestants that were doing their best to stay within the small yellow cones designating their lanes on their way to the finish line. All but one of the racers had finished the event, and the remaining athlete was struggling to move her wheelchair at all. By the time she was half way through the race, I could tell she was worn out. But she didn't stop.
And that's my point.
Despite the difficulty of her race, she didn't stop. Inch by inch, her father walking backwards, staying a few steps in front of her, proudly encouraging her and snapping pictures the whole time, this woman kept moving forward. As I watched, cheering for her along with everyone else, it occurred to me that my trials are petty by comparison. That Saturday morning I witnessed real endurance, in more ways than one.
It's no secret that we all have challenges and obstacles in ours lives. It's probably natural to compare our own trials to those of others, and when we do, we might find that this person's trials are harder than mine, or that couples's trials are easier than ours. But in the end, trials are relative. The point is that we keep going.
We run our races and our friends and family are there to encourage us (and sometimes snap our pictures), and we are there cheering them on for their races. Some races are sprints, some are marathons, and some are those weird steeple chase things. Examples of enduring well are all around us and I'm glad to have bumped into so many this weekend.
Go to the board!
That's awesome Todd. Thanks for sharing that with everyone. It's something I think we all know, but need to be reminded of... frequently! So, thanks for the reminder, and here's hoping it's at least a little while before I have to be reminded again!
ReplyDeleteawh :') That was very touching. Thanks for sharing that experience Todd.
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