Middle school cross country (XC) season just finished. In my experience, cross country has a unique camaradarie that develops among the runners and spectators from various schools as they come together to cheer and encourage one another. Ben, our sixth grader, decided to run XC this fall, and I have traveled to several meets with him, watching him work so hard to improve little by little. But as I stand at that finish line each week, watching all those kids run the last few strides of their race, I cry. Every time. I stand there amidst cheering family and friends, trying to eek out a simple, "Run hard!" while my eyes just weep. I was a little taken back by it at first. I didn't expect to cry when I was supposed to be cheering. I didn't know where the tears were coming from initially, but I have accepted that tears can come out of nowhere sometimes because life is just different now. The first time I cried at the finish line, I thought it was because I was remembering Katie running cross country. While that was a likely component, after several weeks of these tears, I asked myself, "What is driving this emotion?" A little introspection led me to - what I think - is the motivation behind the tears. These are middle school and high school kids running two and three mile courses. Long enough to require endurance, yet short enough to require a significant effort. And it's a race. But, of course, not everyone crosses the finish line first, so it's mostly a race against themselves. Or maybe the person closest to them. I watch as these kids run the last 500 yards and give everything they have left in their energy stores. Their legs move faster and stronger. Their arms pump higher. Their faces reflect the effort they are giving. Looks of determination, stress, pain . . . and tears . . . as they use every bit of reserve. More than one will vomit as they cross the finish line. And this isn't just the front runners. I see runners in the middle and back of the finishers do the same thing. They run hard. They want to do their best. Be their best. Give everything. It reminded me of something that God impressed on me several years ago. This idea that I want to run into Heaven completely spent and exhausted, having given everything I could give to God's purpose for me in this life. I want to live in such a way that I slide into Heaven, panting and puking and pumping the air all at the same time, and say, "Wow! What a ride!" And Jesus says, "I'm so glad you are here!! You ran so hard!! Now come and rest." I believe Katie lived like that. I'm not saying she was perfect, but I do think she lived full of life and full of God. She smiled, served, laughed, worked, learned, and enjoyed. She gave everything. She loved the race of this life. But her race finished uphill, and the last 500 yards were grueling. Yet, somehow, when she got to the final stretch, she never stopped. She never looked back. She never refused to finish. It was then that her courage rose up. I know. I watched her race. I cheered her across the finish line. I held her hand. I handed her off to Jesus. I want to live like that, too. Sure, there are some days when I don't even want to get out of bed. Somedays I could peace out for a looooong time. But, ultimately, I want to run. Hard . . . and fast. Strong . . . and with purpose. And when I get to the last 500 yards, may I run with more grit and determination than I ever thought I had in me. I want to collapse in a heap at the feet of Jesus, completely exhausted, and say, "That was so worth it." So the tears fall. They fall for Katie. For Cohen. For Luke. For Josie. For the kids who run so hard, who give everything, somehow seeing Jesus through the sweat and pain of their race. I want to live like that. And, by the grace of God, I want to die like that, too. I have fought the good fight. I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award me on that day. 2 Timothy 4:7-8 Blessings, Sarah
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One year ago this morning, we woke up early. It was our last day in Hawaii. We would be leaving that night, our trip having been cut short because of Katie's worsening symptoms, and we were trying to cram as much into our time as possible. I have such sweet memories of that morning at Hanuama Bay. I could recall so many details to you. The trolley ride to the bottom of the hill. The gathering of snorkels and masks and flippers. Katie's deep desire to have that experience, made evident by her willingness to don the swim cap she hated over the bald head she hated even more. The chilly water and how it took her breath away -what breath she had left at that time. Me trying to convince her to just duck under the water and then she would get used to it. Her final submission that it really wasn't so bad to just sit on the beach in Hawaii and watch the rest of us. Seeing Aaron swim with Daniel on his back, allowing him the opportunity to view the fish up close like the big kids. Ben's excitement as he and Chad found surprises in the reef. Annie sitting on a towel with Katie in the sand, no doubt annoying her as much as she adored her. I stood on the shore that morning, the tears rolling down my cheeks then as they do now, thinking, I absolutely love these kids. We stopped for malasadas on the way back to the hotel, then washed them down with a round of shaved ice for lunch. An afternoon in the sunshine, frantic packing for an over night flight, and one last family picture. Which became one last family picture. Lack of sleep over the next few days leaves some blurry patches in between the very vivid memories of one year ago. I had walked by her side for months and would hardly be farther than arm's distance for the next 3 days. I made the decision to get on the plane that night even though I didn't know if she could make the trip. Every transition between flights was tumultuous. It would be a head shaking story even if it didn't involve a girl in a wheelchair whose smile belied the gravity of her situation. Somehow we got her to Cincinnati. I don't even know how her body compensated that long - except by the grace of God. Hidden in those next hours is a lot of pain and some very quiet blessings. Moments of weakness. Moments of strength. A lot of love. We said the hard things. We did the unthinkable. One year later, what do we do now? Some days it's hard to know exactly what to do. Or what to feel. We live in the present while we yearn for the past and grieve what could have been the future. We look through the tears as we cling to the hope that we find in the Gospel, and we wait ... we wait for redemption ... we wait for reunion. We miss you fiercely, sweet girl. We'll see you soon, Katie bird! Forever, The Cobb 7 Katie Cobb
8/28/03 - 10/10/17 |
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