Some friends of mine who live out of province has a daughter who is a very talented runner. The regional cross-country championships were held in my town and they called and asked if I could give them a place to stay so they could watch their daughter run.
I was delighted to do it and so I found myself on Saturday morning witnessing the Regional Cross-County Races at Station Park.
It was a marvelously bright, clear, cool morning and many spectators had gathered on the hillsides to watch. I had no child running, and so I found myself watching those who did.
Their faces were intent, their eyes always picking out the only runner they were interested in; and often, when the runners were far away and could not hear their shouts of encouragement, still their lips would move, mouthing the precious, familiar names - and one other word
"Run, Jimmy," they whispered urgently.
"Run, Tracey."
"Run."
The cross-country race is two miles for girls, three for boys. It's a gruelling run - physically and mentally exhausting - over hills and rough terrain.
As the girl's race came to a close, I watched a forty-plus-year old mother - who was wearing patent leather shoes and a skirt and carrying a purse - run the last hundred yards beside her daughter. She saw no other runners. As she ran awkwardly - her long hair coming undone and streaming out behind her, giving no thought to the spectacle she made - she cried, "Run Laura, run! Run, Laura, run!" There were other people crowding in, shouting and screaming, but this mother was determined to be heard. "Run, Laura, run," she pleaded.
The girl had no chance to win, and the voice of her mother, whose heart was bursting with exertion and emotion, was not urging her to win.
SHE WAS URGING HER TO FINISH!
The girl was in trouble. Her muscles were cramping; her breath came in ragged gasps; her stride was faltering; she was in the last stages of of weariness just before collapse. But when she heard her mother's voice, a marvelous transformation took place. She straightened, she found her balance and she finished. She crossed the finish line and collapsed into the arms of her mother.
They fell down together on the grass and they cried, and then they laughed. They were having the best time together, like there was no one else in the world but them.
It was a wonderful sight to see.
As I drove home I thought of my own children and the race they're running - a different and far more important race. A race that requires even greater stamina, courage and character. I am a spectator in that race too. I have helped them to train, I have pleaded - instructed - threatened - punished - prayed - praised - laughed - and cried. I have even tried to familiarize them with the course.
Their race has begun, and I am a spectator.
I see no other runners.
Sometimes their course takes them far from me, and yet I whisper, "Run, children, run." They witness hypocrisy, and there are many voices that call to them to quit this foolish race, telling them they cannot possibly win. They lose sight of their goals and they falter, stumble - and I cry.
"Run, children, run!"
And they come to the last hundred yards - how I long to be there, to run beside them.
"Run, childred, run!"
What if I am gone and there is no one to whisper, to shout it out in their ears? What if they're convinced that they are not going to win? What if the great lie - that you must beat the others - causes them to allow defeat to settle over them?
What if they lose sight of the great truth - that in this race, it is FINISHING that is the victory.

Inspired by a story written by John William Smith