I'm not an athlete -- never have been and never will be. I'm an average woman of an above average weight and height and I'm about as awkward and clumsy as they come. What I am is a dream catcher. I'm the type of person who can see a goal and I will do what ever it takes to achieve it. I see a need and I fill it. I can see a child with hidden potential deep within and I'll do what ever it takes to pull it out.
The funny thing is, I haven't always been like this. I attempted sports when I was younger but I somehow always came up with a random side stitch that would surly make it impossible to run the required mile warm up. I never used to dream. In fact the life I now live, was never even a thought in my mind.
Somehow, somewhere along my life's journey this concept clicked -- little steps, giant leaps. Taking the first little step is always the hardest. God loves little steps. In fact, I believe that's all he really requires of us. Actually, many of the huge life changing decisions we make all begin with one little step -- it usually means simply saying yes or in some cases saying no. I totally believe and have found that the act of taking little steps makes God smile, because He knows just how hard it is and is always eager to turn our little steps into giant leaps.
This weekend I participated in and finished a triathlon. Again, I am not an athlete but I am a dreamer. After Gavin died I trained for my first triathlon as a relay team, doing the last two legs of the race. The first year, it was a time of healing. During my training I fought it out with God. I screamed inside with every pounding down on the treadmill floor. I shed many tears and He began to heal my heart and take my grieving and replace it with hope and joy. Each year I train to honor and remember my little boy, but it really goes way beyond that.
Every step of this race was a symbol -- a symbol of hope, a symbol of healing, a symbol of restoration and proof that God takes little steps and turns them into giant leaps.
Gavin taught me so much in his short three and a half years of life. He was a fighter in every sense of the word. During my run, the last leg of the race, my body was screaming -- I pushed so hard during the ride my legs were shot. I began to remember Gavin's last fifty-two hours of life, after the life support was removed -- after we all thought he would die. I remembered the fight. I remembered his labored breathing -- trying to find air with lungs overtaken by fluid. At that last day we cried out and questioned why God would let our little boy endure such a horrific long death. I look back and I see my little boy smiling inside wanting to teach us one last lesson -- little steps, giant leaps. During those last few miles I remembered this:
One breath in.
One breath out.
That's all it takes.
One little step and God can do the miraculous.