I look up at the night’s sky and I’m breathless. While it’s only 42 degrees on this first weekend of October, I feel wrapped in a blanket woven with tiny lights. The stars seem so close to the Earth and I realize it’s been so long since I’ve experienced this amazing sight. Today is Sunday and it’s not actually nighttime – it’s 5:20 a.m. but the sun has yet to awaken leaving my suburban neighborhood as dark as midnight. The vastness of the sky bursting with stars is a stark reminder of the massiveness of the Universe and the smallness of the human race.
I’m one month out from racing the NYC Marathon with “Miles for Miracles” and my Runcoach has me scheduled for 22 miles today. I know that the only way I am guaranteed to make this happen is to get started before the rest of the world wakes up – before I’m tempted by a hundred other obligations or can find a hundred other excuses not to put in the miles. The rhythmic motion of my headlamp beam begins to hypnotize me as I run up and out of my neighborhood, and it doesn’t take long before the movie of my mind clicks on and starts streaming. I’m thrilled that this morning’s special guest is Rebekah.
Rebekah’s smile follows me on every run
Rebekah is my nine-year-old patient partner who has spent her entire young life in and out of the Boston Children’s Hospital – struggling with a number of genetic diseases and disorders that hurt, haunt, and hijack her childhood and her memories. While I’ve only met Rebekah through her parents via email and Facebook, her spirit shines through in her photos and in the obvious devotion of her mother and father.
Every time I think about Rebekah with her half-smile and her tiny hands, I have to choke back the tears for I know that my struggles – my hardest days – are nothing compared to the ones she faces. Alone now in the quiet darkness, I start reciting a quote that I read recently from a modern-day poet named Christopher Poindexter:
The problem with love these days is that society has taught the human race to stare at people with their eyes rather than their souls.
Oh, how I wish the human race could look at everyone the way I see this little girl – not with their eyes but with their heart, with their soul, with their hope. Those standing right in front of us become mirrors of ourselves. They reflect back to us what Rebekah reflects back to me. I see her strength, which fuels mine. I see her playfulness, which revives mine. I see her fears, which remind me of my own. Her spirit found its way into my heart moments after seeing her picture and she is one of the primary reasons I’m out here today in the cold and dark attempting a run that will take me more than three hours. It’s not three hours of the physical that scares me, but three hours of the mental.
It was here, out on the road one year ago, where I was finally tracked down by the Hound of Heaven and wrestled to the ground. It was here, in the quietness of the day as the sun was finding its way to the horizon, where I finally opened my eyes and ears to see and hear God – the One who’d been running beside me for my whole life. It was here, between the foothills and the eastern plains on one glorious Thanksgiving run, where I realized that every run was simply an excuse to show my gratitude, my appreciation, and my love for this life – or, as some might say – to pray.
So today, in this moment, I pray for this little lamb. I thank Rebekah for being my inspiration and giving me perspective. I ask God to protect her and keep her safe – to wrap her in comfort when she is in pain, to bathe her in joy when she feels like weeping, to cover her in warmth when she is frightened. While I realize the very small part that I play in her very big and complicated life, I am honored to have these small moments – moments that we can choose to just pass us by or choose to stare at in wonder. I choose to stop and stare – and I’m so thankful that in this moment I get to stare at a little girl like Rebekah.
If you want to share my little moments with Rebekah, please consider a donation to my personal fundraiser here at the Boston Children’s Hospital.
