Photos taken by Branden Beachy
This story first appeared on Rhonda Schrock's blog on September 5.
It happened on a gorgeous September night. The starter’s gun fired, and hundreds of running feet took to the course.
The pack was running fast. Standing at a break in the trees, we watched eagerly for our first sighting of The Cub, youngest of our four sons and a senior. And there he came, looking strong.
Through the woods and on to the next viewing spot and the next. By then, he was beginning to lag, so Mother and Father continued to cheer, and Mother prayed. And then it was time.
Sprinting down the slope, I took up my place along the final stretch, watching, watching, waiting, and there he came…
With my heart in my throat, I saw my son waver, legs wobbling. Lower, and lower, and lower he sank while those legs of his kept moving until he collapsed to the ground. Running, mouthing the words, “Oh, my God,” my feet carried me back to where my husband had now stepped out onto the course to pick up his son. From the sidelines, I watched as he spoke into his ear. And then, once again, Cub started running. And again, those legs wobbled and wove and then, at last, failed, and he collapsed.
At once, from nowhere, another runner in a different jersey charged in, picked up my son, and began to carry him down the stretch. Approaching the finish line, he put him down (perhaps to give him the dignity of crossing it himself? I cannot say), and to my utter shock, that son of mine crawled on shaking legs and collapsed one last time.
Thank God for the doctor in attendance who stayed with us as he recovered. For the friend who held up both of his legs to help his heart rate come down. For another friend who, with the doctor, took his arms and began to walk him around as he started to get his legs. For the teammate who knelt by his head as he lay, nearly unconscious, in the grass. For the coaches who kept eyes on him, and the parents who prayed, and the other teammates who showed him their love.
It was afterwards that my husband told me about his little exchange with his boy. “Do you want to quit? Do you want me to walk you in?”
And to this, Cub said, “No. I can do it.” And he tried. Boy, did he try.
The next day, as I waited with him in a doctor’s office to start the testing, I said to my blue-eyed son, “You are a resilient, determined guy.”
And in that calm, simple way of his, he said this, “The only thing in my mind was ‘forward!'”
As we await further testing, we give thanks for so many things–for the grit and character of our son who would not quit, for the character and heart and incredible sportsmanship of another mother’s son who carried mine forward when he could not carry himself.
On Tuesday night after the race, we prayed together about the upcoming tests and other things that mattered. After we were done, he said quietly, “I’m not afraid. I trust God to keep me alive.”
So do we, buddy. So do we.
This story of these two young men is why our family will always love the sport of cross country. It is also why I hold hope and optimism for this rising generation in which there are, as we saw this week on a wooded course, some bright and shining lights. Wearing spikes, who carry each other ‘forward.’
Rhonda Schrock is an author best-known for her "Grounds of Insanity" column in "The Goshen News." To read more of Schrock's work emphasizing the connection between all people, visit rhondaschrock.com.