Cheering from the sidelines

My boys are young athletes. I love supporting them in whatever sport they're doing. As they run the race of life, I want to be there, on the sidelines, cheering them on.

This term I found myself at more than one cross-country event. Actually I think it was four altogether, as my son, Judah, progressed his way through the competition. School. Inter-school. District. Regionals. He was marvelous to watch. Strong, focused, determined. Fit.

I've been here before with Malachi. And expect I'll be here again with Ezra. I also find myself poolside (swimming), ringside (taekwondo), beach-side (surfing), trail-side (biking)... The list goes on of the sports my boys love and excel in and which I find myself in a taxi / support/ cheering role.

It was at the Western Bay of Plenty cross-country this year that I suddenly found myself deep in reflection about being on the sidelines, not just sports sidelines, but the sidelines of life.

I had spent the morning with Judah, coaching him on the race ahead. As his heat drew near, I settled him at the start line, left him there and made my way to good viewing / photo spot to observe the start of the race.

Waiting for the gun to go off

While waiting for the gun to go, a feeling hit me, that I found hard to name.

I could feel nervous anticipation rising. I wasn't the one running the race, but still, the butterflies arrived. My heart was beating faster than normal. I was edgy. There was an adrenaline heightened awareness.

As I've mentioned, I've been on the sidelines a lot. We never worry about winning or what place the boys come, but enjoy the feeling of accomplishment and celebrating them running their best race. I usually get excited. I'm that mum who loudly runs alongside my kids, vibrant encouragement bursting out.

But this feeling was more than that. It was stronger than I'd experienced before. The competitors had lined up early so I had a few moments to investigate what was going on for me.

And as I tried to make sense of where I was at, another memory flooded me. It was when Judah was little, just a baby. He had to have an operation at about 6 months old and, once he was under general anesthetic, I had to leave him in the hands of the doctors. I was experiencing the same heart racing, adrenaline heightened awareness I had felt as I walked alone down that long, lonely corridor in the hospital, deeply anxious about the separation from him during the procedure. Hating leaving him alone, unconscious on that hard, cold, sterile slab.

It dawned on me then, standing on the sidelines of the cross country race, that I was again feeling that same level of anxiety and fear. I was afraid of leaving my son alone to run the race without me. My cancer diagnosis, which I had been doing my utmost to tuck out of mind, had snuck in without my permission and was running amuck with my emotions. The figurative gun to my head. Waiting for it to go off.

This race was no longer just a race. It was symbolic of my life with my children. Of my desire to always be there for them. Cheering them on. Giving them advice and encouragement. Never leaving them.

I could feel the distance between myself and that start line where Judah stood ready to go. And I had to fight to urge to run and be beside him. So that he'd know I was there. That I hadn't left. That I'd never leave him.

Bang! The noise of the gun brought me back to the present reality and there I was, breathlessly racing around the track, snapping photos, cheering him on, celebrating his stamina and strength.

He pushed himself harder than he ever had before. He absolutely smoked it, coming 9th and qualifying for the Regionals. As he bent over with exhaustion, trying to catch his breath, I too had time to catch my own.

Run well my children

I revealed in his independence, confidence and self-determination. I felt humbled to watch him run so well and realised, in that moment, that although I've given him the gift of life, he's the one who has to run his race. As all my children have to.

It's a privilege to be on the sidelines cheering them on, and I want to invest my time well, so that I'm confident that in their lives, they are equipped to run their best race. But there will come a day when I'm not there, sooner or later. When my voice is no longer audible and exuberant.

It was an uncomfortable feeling facing that sense of inevitable separation.

But I found hope there too.

Hope in the strength and courage of my children. Knowing they will run well. Knowing they have others cheering them on too. That my voice is not their only source of encouragement. They have their family. Their friends. Their community. They have God, who is ever present and ever loving, whose exuberance over them completely overshadows mine.

Courage, Love and Legacy

It's such a beautiful thing raising children. It's such a privilege. There is no doubt that being a parent takes both courage and love, all in the name of legacy. But it's not a position to take for granted.

All to often these days I know of mothers and fathers being diagnosed with cancer or some other life-effecting illness while their children are still young. I have friends who have lost husbands and wives, been widowed and left raising their children alone. The wrench and the heart-ache in those moments seems insurmountable.

The years our children are dependent on us are a treasure; the moments we have with them, precious beyond measure. Cancer has made me all to aware of the fragility of this existence and its made me cheer all the louder from the sidelines. So that my voice of encouragement is never forgotten. So that the wrap around hug at the end of the run is always felt. So that my children are infused with courage and love for their race ahead.

Where is your voice of encouragement the loudest and most exuberant?