An Open Letter to My Sister-in-Law
June 21, 1998
5:25 p.m.
An open letter to my sister-in-law: Dear Michelle, By now you've run your marathon. You're in San Diego, resting and relaxing. Now you know just how long twenty-six miles really is. I have no idea how you've done, whether you finished or not, if you're feeling the thrill of victory or the agony of d'feet! I wanted to let you know what an inspiration you've been. When I first heard you talk about running a marathon, I have to admit I scratched my head a little. And when you started trianing seriously, I kind of chuckled--you know, there goes Michelle, again. When you asked for sponsorship, for a donation to the leukemia society in your name, I was happy to do it, but thought something like, "Hey, she's kind of serious about this, ain't she?" But I've been thinking about this a little bit, and I think I understand, in my own way, what you're doing and why you're doing it. In some tiny way, you're doing it for the same reason I spend a couple hours a day writing my little stories. Life is so very short. Most of us get 70, maybe 80 years. But some of us don't get that many. Your father got thirty-seven. Your grandmother, ninety something. I know you have a friend whose family has lived with the cloud of leukemia hovering over them. Who knows how long any of us have, though, really. There's no guarantees. You have always been an "experience it" type of person. It is, perhaps, your greatest strength. And it is a trait I admire greatly in you. But running a marathon is not something you just wake up one day and go do. It's something that requires commitment and dedication. It requires planning. It requires consistency of purpose. Pardon me for letting this bit out of the hat, Michelle, but looking under your name in the famiy history books, one does not often find stories of this type. Usually, we hear of ice cream eating as soon as your mother was out of the house. Or of testing who has the biggest mouth by who can swallow the largest spoon of mashed potatoes. Or of some other spur of the moment decision that didn't turn out exactly as you probably wanted it to. But now you've trained for months. You've run through pain, and probably through sickness. You've lost five toenails. You've maintained consistency of purpose. It is a trait that looks beautiful on you. I think it is a sign that you've grown--haven't we all, eh? (we'll not talk about my past here, okay?) I think it's a sign of Greg's influence, and of Mallory's. And I think it's a testament to your own inner strength. You've always had a stubborn streak. On this Father's Day, Brigid, and Lisa, and I played games. We saw a movie together. Tonight we'll go to dinner. It's been a good day. But I'm thinking of you, running through the California sunshine. Running for Caryn. Running for Greg, and for your father, and for everyone else--but even more, running for yourself. I hope that you finished, because I know how bad you wanted to. But I needed to write this before I found out how you fared. I needed to do it now because I wanted to be able to tell you that it really doesn't matter if you crossed the line or not. Life is short. You're effort fills my heart. You were a winner in my book the minute you got on the plane to head out west. Congratulations, Michelle. Now go soak those feet. Marathon  Daily Persistence is © Ron Collins |
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"Nothing in the world can take the place of persistence" Calvin Coolidge |
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