1 Mother 2 Another

A good friend of ours came into town this
week to run the marathon; he’d originally been scheduled to
run the New York marathon, which was canceled at the last minute
due to Hurricane Sandy. He’d been one of our really good
friends in New York, so we were thrilled to have any excuse to see
him.


Now, I am not a runner. At ALL. I have several friends who run, and
I truly don’t get it. But I hear that it’s lovely if
you can withstand the pain and there’s nothing quite like a
marathon. I’ve also heard that having a cheering squad is
invaluable along the way; having friends to scream and jump and
encourage you along the route makes you feel a bit less alone, a
bit less like giving up.


So I hear.

Well, Brian was leading worship at our
church yesterday morning so I was the ENTIRE cheering squad for my
friend. We pored over the map, marked out the best spots for me to
stand and cheer him on, and packed up our backpack for the big day.


I stood and cheered for my friend in four different spots along the
route: at miles 5, 14, 20, and a couple blocks before the finish
line. He looked fantastic at mile 5 and great at mile 14, but
I’d been warned by my local friends that mile 20 was the
infamous “Dolly Parton Hills”. Use your imagination as
to why they’re so named. So I headed there knowing my friend
would need some encouragement, some water, and some sort of magic
something to keep him going.


I stood right before the twin hills holding my big sign, with a
bottle of water ready. As soon as I knew he’d seen me, I
rolled up the sign, threw on my backpack, and ran forward to give
him the water. “How are you doing?” I asked.


“I’m not so sure about this,” he replied.
“I’m really hurting.”


Now, here is where that magic would come in handy. Some sort of
perfect Mommy words of encouragement and uplifting-ness to spur him
on and keep him going. But lest we forget, I’ve never done
ANYTHING like this and had NO idea what to say. I swallowed my
first impulse (more on that later) and said, “Ok, listen,
this is uncharted territory here (he’d never run more than 20
miles before) but I know you can do this. I know you can.” I
began jogging alongside him, saying whatever came into my head, and
I ran both hills next to him in my jeans and backpack, talking
nonstop and bolstering him up. The path eventually narrowed and I
dropped back and moved on to my final spot at the finish line.


I parked myself a couple blocks from the finish line and stood
cheering people on, waiting for my friend. I began telling people,
“Listen, you only have two more blocks! You can do this! Just
to the top of that hill and then down the hill to the finish
line.” After saying it a few times, I had one runner shout
back, “Thanks! It helps to hear the truth!”


Puzzled, I looked at the guy standing next to me. “People
have been saying stupid stuff the whole race, like, ‘Last
hill!’ or ‘You’re almost there!’ and it
doesn’t help. What helps a runner is knowing what’s
coming up so you can prepare.” I thought about this.


So my friend finished, and did fantastic. After he’d cooled
down and we were on our way back home, he started talking about the
Dolly Parton Hills, how he’d hit The Wall just before there.


I laughed. “I know! You said, ‘I’m really
hurting,’ and I thought, ‘Of course you’re
hurting, you’re running a f$#@ing marathon!’”


My friend snorted with laughter. “Oh, how I would’ve
loved to have heard that!” And then he sobered up. “But
thanks for running those hills with me. Thanks for getting me
through them.”


And here is the point of this whole story – that I realized
that sometimes we can’t make a bad situation any prettier
than it really is for our kids. Sometimes they don’t need it
softened, they need the hardness acknowledged. They need you to
say, “Of course this is hard!” so they know
they’re not crazy.


And sometimes they need you to just run the hills with them. When
all the cookies and snuggles just won’t cut it, sometimes it
helps just to know you’ve got someone running those $#@#ing
hills next to you. Not fixing it, not assuaging it, but with you
nonetheless.


And as you’re running next to your child, you say, “Of
course this is hard! And you are the only one who can do this. But
look – I KNOW you can do this.”


And then you fall back, and leave them to push through the wall on
their own. ‘Cause that’s how it has to be.