This month I tried to think about how to help my kids really value work. I thought back in my own life to an experience that changed my heart about the value of work.
I have pushed this part of my past aside often because I regret having spent so much time on sports. I wish I'd spent it on something that lasted a little longer, like school.
So my kids have rarely heard me talk about these experiences. I dug out some old mementos I'd saved in dusty cardboard boxes that smelled of yellow paper and the past.
I gave them each one of these things to hold (my husband was working late).
They were so cute, my little 3 wanted the "necklace," and promptly put it on, and others turned the papers or jar over in their hands with wondering looks.
I told them the story of a little girl who was once the worst player on her soccer team. She was also the one panting the hardest at the back of the pack any time conditioning or longer distance running were done, resenting every minute of it. Yes, it was me.
Then one day, in high school, she read an article about a young cross country runner named Rosy Gardner (full article
here), who worked so hard the football coaches at her high school often wished they could pour some of her energy and grit into their players. She did two-a-days, her first one at 5:20 am each day, rain or shine. At one point, a trainer had to practically physically carry her to get her feet looked at -- she had peeled off blood-encrusted socks (from blisters) in preparation to run (again) with her team that day (I admired this a lot at the time, ha ha). Not only that, but Gardner was a pleasant, humble, well-liked student.
I was so inspired by this story as a young teenage athlete that I cut out the article and kept the front page pinned to my bedroom wall or bulletin board for several years. It inspired me to work harder. I improved so much in soccer that I went from the worst on my team to second-team all state.
In track, I tried to imitate Rosy by pulling two-a-days and doing gut wrenching work-outs, even in the rain or on holidays. My senior year, I counted down the last 100 days with little white papers taped to my closet door to remind me of how little time I really had to prepare for the state championship. Each day, I'd pull down a paper and write down what I did for training that day. Then I put them in a jar.
When the Regional Championships came around, I toted my little Tang bottle with me to the meet for moral support. If nothing else, I knew I had given my all. I knew I was racing someone who ran two seconds better than my best time (that is a lot). When we rounded the bend, 200 meters into our 300, I was ahead of her but she started to pull up as if to pass me. I gritted my teeth, the days running in the rain, the times of sacrifice, alone in the early dark, practicing hurdles until I had bruises all over my knees-- all these flashed through my mind, and I hung tight. Clearing that last hurdle took the last ounce of my strength. I won by a tiny bit, beating my best time by two seconds. That day, I stood on the stand in the "1" position for the first time.
More than that, I knew that no matter the outcome I had won, because I had bettered myself and done all I could do. My proudest achievement was not to be known as the fastest runner, but as someone who wasn't trying in every way possible to cut corners, but as someone who gave her all. (this is good to remember! I can do it! I can work hard!)
Here is a poem I wrote in high school about the overall experience:
The Road
Silently
the footsteps fall
on the wet pavement,
The snow
Beats a slow
Rhythm
On a veiled world,
The streetlight
Illuminates the quiet darkness
As the feet move
Slowly on.
Days turn into weeks,
Yet the slow footsteps
Continue through
The moods of the season,
Drawing strength from
Their silent pilgrimage.
The steps retreat for a moment
And record forever
The image of a blue-gold sky
And the snow
Falling
In the mountains.
I ran the road
Alone,
Expecting only
To conquer myself.
The work
And the sacrifice
And the moments of silent repose
Are mine
Forever.
My kids were strangely quiet as I related these events and had one of them read the poem.
I told them my wish for them would be not to do what I had done, by pouring their best efforts and energies into sports and competitiveness (though these have their place), but into school and service. I told them that working hard would be one of the most important things they will ever learn.
Then we had a closing prayer. My little nine year-old said a sweet, thoughtful prayer, and closed it with "and we're thankful that Mom is our mom."
