A Letter to Will

Dear Will,

This past Saturday I watched as you ran in your final Cross Country race, and as I watched I couldn't help but wonder where all the years had gone.



It seems like yesterday I was watching you run the mile in a yellow t-shirt, baggy shorts and basketball shoes on the playground at Crestwood elementary.



Then you moved into middle school where you ran 3K's in the early morning hours then we stopped at McDonald's for breakfast as we drove home together. You talked all the way home; I guess there wasn't any competition from your brother and sister.



In high school, you ran 5K's and rode the bus back with the team. (I missed our McDonald's breakfasts.) The Hillbilly Run is still my favorite because they sold cool t-shirts and you always ran a PR there. The Dragon Invitationals were always eventful, too. My least favorite was probably when we had it by the Baptist church and we spent Friday afternoon shoveling piles of cow sh-- off the course. Of course, the record rain and 2 feet of mud that you made your way through as a Senior will always be memorable.



In college, you moved to 8K's. I think Evansville may have been my favorite meet -- I really liked the lake there. (I must say, however, that college races were lame when it came to t-shirts and concessions.) And then all of a sudden, I was standing at Tom Sawyer Park on Saturday as you ran a 10K, and just like that, it was over.



Honestly, Will, watching you run has been one of my greatest pleasures in being your mom. The pride that swells within me at each and every race has never been surpassed by a theater performance or a band competition. This past Saturday I finally understood why.



In all the races that you have started and finished, you never once approached the starting line thinking you would win--that you would get a huge trophy, a standing ovation or a written review in the next day's newspaper.

You did approach the line knowing that you would give your best, that you would finish the race. (I won't bore you with the details, but that profound act is actually biblical. Religious people devote their lives to learning how to give their best and finish the race.)



By continuing to put one foot in front of the other -- even when your shoe was untied (or tied too tightly thanks to Bo), or when you fell in the creek or your shoes didn't fit correctly, or the ground was too hard or muddy for spikes, even when you were lapped by faster runners, even when your blister bled through to the outside of your shoe (how cool is that?), even when it must have felt like things were falling apart--you took the next step, lengthened your stride and kept your eyes up. When you finished, you shook the hand of the runners near you and congratulated them on a race well run. Every time, Will. You did this every time.



Maybe after 13 years of you running I've finally learned the lesson you began teaching me when you were a 4th grader. In all that I do, whether as a teacher, a friend, a daughter, or most importantly, as your mother, I will strive to give it my best and I will most certainly finish the race.



I love you, Will. And not for being good, not for staying out of trouble, not for being the peacemaker in our family. I love you for the heart of a champion that beats inside that weird chest of yours. I love you because you show up and finish. I love you because you are mine.



Mom