I was a soccer mom for a couple of years, when my oldest son was playing. A very laid back soccer mom. I liked those fall mornings, standing around the field with the other parents, chatting with each other, cheerfully shouting out our kids’ names whenever it seemed like something might be happening out there between the nets. That lasted until my second child got old enough to join the league. One season of ferrying kids between different practice and game times, happening in two separate locations was enough. I bailed. I’m the mom Olympic sponsors will never celebrate in commercials: half-assed, but whole-hearted.
That was seven years ago, and if I sometimes felt guilty for depriving the boys of one of the cornerstones of a suburban upbringing, I never missed it for myself. So I was surprised at how much I loved spending this past Saturday morning in a field, chatting with the other parents, eyes on the race course, ready to shout my kid’s name when he made the final sprint in his first 5K with his high school cross-country running team.
This guy loves to run. In middle school, he was crazy about parkour, but couldn’t find an organized training program. I encouraged him to try out for track, and we were both discouraged when he ran one of the fastest times, and didn’t make the team. I don’t know if the coach took one look and decided my punk kid wasn’t jock enough, or there was some technical reason he wasn’t picked, but I knew I’d have a hard time persuading him to put himself out there again. Parkour gave way to skateboarding, which has been his passion and focus the last couple of years, one I’ve supported and mostly delighted in (when I’m not covering my eyes with my hands).
Then a few weeks ago, a friend happened to see him running to catch up to someone, and remarked on his natural gait, suggesting he’d make a good long distance runner. It was the nudge I needed to nudge my son one more time. I called up the coach of the cross country team, and sent a message telling my son to bring the forms home for me to sign, and expect to run after school the next day. Just to see.
He’s been at practice every afternoon, ever since, and comes home exhilarated by it every night.
It’s always beautiful to see a person doing something they were born to do. For however long a season.
It makes me think of that line in Chariots of Fire:
“I believe God made me for a purpose, but he also made me fast. And when I run I feel His pleasure.”
My son doesn’t have to run like an Olympian, or even stay on the cross-country team, for God’s pleasure or for mine. But whenever he does anything with his whole heart, I hope he feels both.