The whistle blew,
and suddenly
a line of middle-aged men
remembered they had something to prove.
The children shouted.
The dads sprinted.
The knees complained.
Tomorrow’s ibuprofen
was already inevitable.
By the next morning,
we were archaeologists,
carefully excavating ourselves
from sofas across the town.
Maybe that’s what made me smile.
We can become wonderfully serious
about races
that last only seconds.
About being first.
About one last burst of speed.
While the children
were simply glad
that Dad joined in.
Then I wondered
how much energy
I spend chasing finish lines
that disappear
almost as quickly
as they’re crossed.
Jesus calls us
to a different race.
Not to outrun one another,
but to follow him,
helping others
keep going too.
Maybe next year
I’ll laugh a little more,
creak a little less,
and remember
that the race worth giving everything to
doesn’t end
at a line marked out with rope,
but in hearing Jesus say,
“Well done,
good and faithful servant.”