To those kids in last place ...

I got to attend the kids' Track and Field day today. It was amazing and so much fun. Sam surprised everyone by being an absolute powerhouse runner. He used to hide his athletic ability because he didn't like being watched - this is one kid who does not enjoy being the centre of attention. But the boy can run.

But the kids who touched my heart the most were the kids coming in dead last. Why didn't they give up? Once they realized they were truly last, why didn't they just sit down on the grass and catch their breath? But they didn't.

Heat after heat, they persisted - making their way to the finish line long after the first runners had arrived.

I think they probably gained the most valuable exercise today. Fast runners have a golden gift that everyone cheers for. But the slowest kids? The practice of persisting works out a muscle that they'll use their whole lives long.

Persistence is power. 

To the slowest kids: I'm so proud of you.

Already Loved

I saw a rabbit on the road.

Dead;

Flattened against the asphalt 

With only

Two fuzzy ears

Perked straight up

As if, in his final moment,

He threw all of his might earward

Straining for one last word from God.

I, too, listen with all my might

And in the end

When I am dust

Perhaps my words will be left

Poking up for all the world like two ears

Listening and listening still 

For one more word from God.

(It will be what it always is:

You are already loved, already loved, already loved.)

Good Morning

I woke up.

I reached up to heaven.

God said good morning.

And I tumbled out of bed into his hammock

Into his arms

Into the eternal assurance 

That I am already loved.

How do words stick?

Stentorian: here's a thing I know

(When a voice is big and booming) So

How came I by this knowledge? Show 

Me where and when it came to grow.

Was it in a book I read and read

Until the phrase grooved in my head

And though I'd never heard it said

Or looked it up, it stayed. Or did

It filter in from magazines

A Reader's Digest, or Seventeen,

Or from the paper, smudging ink,

Or a cut-out pinned by the kitchen sink?

Words on words erumpent burst

From screens and passersby; at first

They flow and fill some inner thirst

And lie, dormant, for better or worse

Until circumstance calls one word 

The setting right, it must be heard

Vocabulary blooming, thick and fast

With words that stay, and stick, and last.