My husband is good at marathons.
This is not to say he is good at training for marathons. He’s not great at stretching before his runs, or after. He never remembers to ice sore muscles or heat them. He wears running gear that is twenty years old. But he’s finished fifteen marathons or half-marathons because he is a person who finishes hard things.
Mike’s most significant character trait is his perseverance. He is patient, cautious, an oldest-child who takes responsibility incredibly seriously.
Mike is hesitant to start new projects because he knows he’ll stick with whatever it is until the bitter end.
I’m the opposite. I’m a starter. I would be a terrible in a marathon because I would burn all my energy in the first ten miles and then stop at the nearest café.
I’m strong on ideas, on big plans, on vision. I’m fantastic at the first seventy percent of any project.
And then, I’m just done. Overwhelmed with the details, worn out from all my energy at the start, and on to the next idea. I’ve never hesitated to start anything in my life. Why would I? If it doesn’t work out, I’ll move on to something else. Perfect youngest child qualities.
So, although Mike was engineered for a marathon, or a half marathon every year, I’m engineered to be a marathon encourager. My flashes of bright energy aren’t good for long-distance running, but this kind of energy is perfect to cheer on marathon finishers.
This past Sunday, the kids and I tracked Mike in a high-energy morning. We were up at six with excitement, hot chocolate and noisemakers. We found diligent Mike on the course and screamed our heads off. Then off to the next stop for more screaming and high-fiving.
Around 8:30, Mike was finishing the marathon, and my band of cheerleaders and I were already on to the next thing. We were at Corner Bakery feasting on pancakes for the kids and coffee and eggs for me.
At nine, Mike was slowly walking to his car, with his toenails black and his legs sore. We were already home, in the shower getting ready for church.
Our ten-year-old, Catie, plans to run track this year but she’s not sure if she’s a distance runner or sprinter. Mike is planning to help coach the kids at her school who want to run long distance. He will those distance runners in longer runs, teaching them to pace themselves, and how to conserve their energy. This slow and steady running style will be appeal to the steadfast, consistent finishers at the school. Kids who like to pace themselves and who are okay with delayed gratification.
Catie isn’t sure if she’s cut out for this kind of slow and steady pace. Is she high energy or high responsibility? A starter or a finisher? A sprinter or a distance runner?
As she gets older, and I learn more about parenting, I’m learning how important these conversations are. It would be easy to tell her she’s good at everything: at sprinting, at distance running, and at cheering on the sidelines.
But that’s not really true, is it? No matter what our world wants kids to believe, we can’t all be good at everything. And when you find what you are good at, when you run the speed you’re meant to run, it feels right.
Not everyone can finish a marathon (or half marathon) every year without training. Not everyone has the energy to wake up at 5 and drag four kids out into the cold, dark morning to cheer on those slow, steady runners.
Every one of us has a pace. Finding the right pace and saying yes to it is important. But so is honestly admitting what pace doesn’t work for you.
My prayer is that I can be honest with my kids when I see them excelling at something naturally, but that I can also be honest when they’re not.
And I hope Catie finds her place this spring in track.
Either sprinting, distance running with her dad, or cheering from the sidelines with me.
