These Little Lights of Mine

Several weeks ago Coulter and I were making our way down the back steps that lead into our church. I like to go the back way because I can sneak Coulter into Sunday School without actually checking in. It’s not that I mind checking him in, it’s that I always forget my little card that they swipe and I don’t like having to admit that, once again, I have no card. I know it’s wrong, but I basically live under the assumption that there are certain rules that simply don’t apply to me and this is one of those rules. I also like going the back way because Coulter thinks it’s our super secret shortcut and for those few minutes on Sunday morning I feel like a really cool Mom for having figured out such a top-secret entrance!


On this particular Sunday, though, we were racing down the stairs when Coulter stopped with a jerk and said, “Mom! Look! It’s a robin’s egg.” I looked down and there lay a cracked (almost crushed) blue robin’s egg and my heart sank. “Oh Coulter, how sad.” “Ma-aaahmm,” Coulter replied with a voice oozing frustration, “It’s not sad. The baby bird cracked out and flew away. That’s what they’re supposed to do” Well, duh! Of course that’s what happened. Or at least that’s a much nicer ending to the story! When had I become such a realist? And what is a realist, anyway? It’s just a nice word for pessimist.

Baby bird, aside, I’ve always been an optimistic person and I come by it quite naturally. My parents were always glass half-full people. Come to think of it, they are more like glass totally full. Someone has cancer? It’s the “good” kind. I mean if you’re going to have cancer this is the kind you want. Someone lost their job? It’s a victory; now they can go out and have the job they really want. Someone gets busted for drugs? Praise the Lord, now maybe he will have a chance to turn his life around. This is the kind of optimism that I grew up with; an optimism grounded in faith and Biblical truths.

Once upon a time I’m sure that I, too, would have seen a baby bird flying around. Where was my child-like faith and heart bursting with optimism? My new pessimistic outlook came back to haunt me again last weekend at the starting line of a 10 mile run. At the time I signed up it seemed like a great idea. On the morning of the run, however, it seemed like a hazy drug-induced idea. What was I thinking? I hadn’t run more than 5 or 6 miles for the past 3 years and now all of a sudden I think I’m going to pull a 10? To further shake my confidence, there was a spandex-clad, perfectly fit woman next to me (seriously, how can anyone be that tan the 1st weekend in June. This is South Dakota!) Anyway, she mentioned that there were only 55 people signed up to run. Math might not be a strong area for me, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out those are some pretty high odds for coming in last. Usually there are hundreds and thousands of runners at these races and I enjoy the anonymity of it all. Well, not today. Today I knew several people; people from work, people from church; fast people, fit people, tan and beautiful people and I all I could think about was coming in last.

I was so consumed with coming in last that at mile 3 ½ I began to count the runners on their way back. 30, 32, 45…. Yep, I’m gonna be last. Now, in my heart, I know it doesn’t matter whether I came in first or last. All that matters is that I’m a 37 year-old mother of 2 and I’m out there running 10 miles. I know this and yet what really bothers me isn’t coming in last (although just for the record I was 41st out of what ended up being 49 finishers, thank you very much.) What bothers me is the fact that I totally believed I would be last. That’s realism; that’s pessimism. Not to over-do the story book theme, but once upon a time I would have insanely believed that I could have come in first and if I hadn’t I would have believed that the other 40 runners must have just had their best day ever! And if my Dad happened to be at the race, he would have convinced me that the race was in some way rigged. I mean that’s the only way his daughter isn’t going to win the race. And you know what, I would have believed him. And you know what else? I miss that spirit of optimism. I know, though, that I can catch it again. Beyond blessed are those moment watching Coulter and Emma Claire with their trusting spirits and child-like faith (the kind of faith that we are all called to have,) and I never again want to squish a baby bird’s life out of my son’s imagination.

Last summer I judged the Miss Arkansas Pageant, a pre-lim to Miss America and one of the young ladies in her interview made a comment that really stuck with me. She said, “Ma’am, I don’t care if my glass is half empty or half full. I’m just so happy to have a glass.” Sure, some days my glass seems more full than others, like the days that I remember ALL of Emma Claire’s clothes and the days where I believe I can run to the moon and back, but even for those less-than-full days, (like when some 20 year-old on her way to Miss America calls you "Ma'am") I am overflowing with gratitude and am just so happy to have a glass! Cheers!