We received the email the same week we met and received the newest member of our family in China.
Our team was traversing this country we loved and falling in love with the sweet and spicy 3-year-old superhero who orphanage workers had just told us may never walk, and back at home, enthusiastic middle school coaches were preparing for upcoming seasons for teenagers they would soon teach to run.
Our new middle schooler who received 50 percent of his genes from a woman who couldn’t even pass her middle school mile had thus far not shown a lot of promise in the realm of athletics.
He’d tried soccer. (He essentially signed up for the snacks.)
He’d tried football. (After getting a weight waiver because he was legally still small enough he had to sit in a car seat on the way to and from practice, he decided that padding up and facing large boys twice his size was maybe not his athletic gifting and, following the post-season party, told us he would “prefer not to die.”)
He’d even tried some back-to-back seasons of rec basketball (where, during his last game of his last season, his teammates and even opponents tried to pause the game long enough to give this uncoordinated boy the chance to shoot a basket … that he, sweet thing, for the life of him, just could not make).
Ball sports, he decided, were just not his thing.
But putting one leg in front of the other, he thought, could be.
This boy who loved our Saturday family runs had participated in races before. He’d entered local 5Ks and 10Ks, and he’d even won a few in his age group — mostly because, let’s be honest, at 8, 9 and 10, he was one of the only ones IN his age group at the time. (No third place finisher means the competition ain’t exactly cutting.)
So, three days after stepping off the plane that brought his youngest brother home from China, Superhero 1 started 6th grade, and with it, a new club called cross country.
And thus began the parallel journeys of the oldest boy who loves to run and the youngest boy with the superpower of cerebral palsy who desperately longs for that day.
As our family transitioned home and settled into a team of six, Superhero 1 settled into four-day-per-week middle school running practices and Superhero 4 settled into the most incredible local school, where he was under the tender care of three teachers, a speech therapist, an occupational therapist and a physical therapist.
Every day, Superhero 1 ran.
And every day, Superhero 4 practiced stretches and exercises that would someday help him to stand and walk.
As Superhero 1 lined up for his very first middle school cross country meet, it was Superhero 4 in the stroller by my side who cheered the loudest at every viewing point of the two-mile race. And, when his new big brother crossed the finish line at the back of the pack at 18:33, nearly seven minutes after the leader won the race, it was Superhero 4 who joined his banshee mama in hooping and hollering to a now half-empty crowd like her baby boy had just won the Olympics.
(My family comes from a long line of unathletic nerds who accidentally shot their gym teachers in archery units — running any race NOT in last place is a feat for the record books around these parts.)
That race lit a fire in two superheroes — the one who ran it and the one who dreamed about someday doing it.
Superhero 1 began training on weekends and taking on the treadmill at home.
Superhero 4 pushed through physical therapy and learned how to independently stand for five seconds, then 10 seconds, then 20.
Superhero 1 began pushing himself on the track, and Superhero 4 began pushing himself behind a Little Tikes Cozy Coupe at our house.
Both of them, one set on running, the other set on walking, began digging into the daily-ness of repetition and hard work, both spurring on the other to reach their goals.
By the end of his 6th grade cross country season, and in just six weeks of meets, the superhero who had discovered his newest passion had (by the positive, absolute grace of God) cut four minutes from his first race time, and his baby brother had taken his first independent step.
As Superhero 4 began thriving with the resources he was receiving at the local children’s center and Superhero 1 approached his 12th birthday, the boy who was now waking daily to run on the treadmill at 5 a.m. asked if he could register for a new challenge — a half marathon.
But just as the two of us began training for our 13.1-mile June race, tragedy struck, and one of Superhero 4’s teachers and his most favorite person in the world — the one who taught him to ride a tricycle and use the big boy potty — lost one son in a car accident … with the other son who was also in the car care flighted to the nearest trauma center.
Of the four people riding in the vehicle that day, two died.
Ironically, the other passenger who lost her life was the cousin of Superhero 4’s other beloved assistant teacher.
The heartache of watching a man our newest son so dearly loved walk through the grief of losing one son and walking another through partial arm paralysis and the trauma of surviving the crash that killed his brother was almost too much to bare.
It was then that Superhero 1 saw the opportunity to transform his new passion into physical provision … and asked if we could use the half marathon as a fundraiser for Superhero 4’s teachers’ families.
“If we’re going to run 13 miles, we should do it with purpose,” he told me. “Let’s run for Mr. Johnny.”
As that 12-year-old boy who once couldn’t run more than two miles without stopping crossed the finish line of a half marathon at 1:44:12 (more than 30 minutes before his regretting-the-marathon-in-the-mountains mama heaved up the last hill and collapsed), he raised more than $2,200 for two families whose roads to recovery would be much longer than the race he had just completed to encourage them in it.
And, in the Mr. Incredible suit he wore in Mr. Johnny’s honor for all 13 miles of the race, he simultaneously taught this girl how a well-stewarded gift could actually become a sacred service.
By 7th grade, this boy who simply responded to an email in a China hotel room was hooked. He woke at 4:30 every summer morning to run with this Godsend of a local running club he had discovered through his middle school coach and friends, and he dedicated himself to daily workouts, even if he couldn’t make the group morning miles.
The baby brother who saw the dedication of a middle school boy who woke before the sun worked, too, attending physical therapy and practicing with his new pediatric walker and soon, with the assistance of an ambulatory device appropriately the color of caution-tape yellow, this speed demon on wheels was rolling over and running down unsuspecting Walmart shoppers like a pro.
By his first race of 7th grade, the boy who was previously lapped by the first place finisher in practice was placing at meets, and by the championship race that year, he’d cut his two-mile time to 12:22, all while Superhero 4, before and after meets, began standing independently and taking sets of four and five steps to cheer for the brother who was doing what he still dreamed about.
By the end of the school year, Superhero 4 had learned to utilize crutches like Beyonce and was setting his aspirations higher than grocery store walker races.
That’s when Superhero 1’s running club hosted a fun run fundraiser for children of all ages.
And instead of sitting on the sidelines, this incredibly motivated warrior insisted on running.
The entire .5 mile race.
The entire obstacle course.
And across the finish line, all with the help of his special friend, Miss Gina, the mama of a national champion and the fastest kid on Superhero 1’s team, who insisted that he, too, get to participate.
The boy we were told that day in China might never walk, didn’t; he, with his walker, RAN.
He climbed. He finished. He conquered.
And he defied every label and expectation his caretakers had ever had for him.
But he still couldn’t do it independently.
So as Superhero 1 woke to run every day before the sun this summer, Super-Spouse and I fought to get Superhero 4 an orthopedic evaluation. This little fighter had plateaued in physical therapy and couldn’t seem to move beyond a handful of independent steps, and one of his PTs suggested we look at other options that might get this little warrior up and independently running.
We’d requested the referral back in February, but it had taken months for our insurance and this in-demand clinic to coordinate so that Superhero 4 could be evaluated for surgery.
After an appointment with one of the best pediatric orthopedic surgeons in the country in August, Superhero 4 was scheduled for major surgery … the day of Superhero 1’s very first cross country meet of his last year of his middle school running season.
So the day of Superhero 1’s very first 8th grade meet, after I kissed the waking forehead of the boy who rocked out major surgery, I rushed in sweats I’d been sporting since 3 a.m. pre-op prep from the hospital an hour and a half away to the cross country field. (Massive thank you to the other parents who so kindly pretended I didn’t smell like hand sanitizer and hospital gowns.)
And there, while the baby whose hamstrings, hip adductors and hip flexors had just been lengthened lay beside his daddy in braces in a hospital bed, I had the honor and privilege of watching the baby who had been pouring countless morning hours into strengthening HIS legs for two years cross the finish line.
First.
For the first time in his cross country life.
After a two-year journey, it was thrilling and exhilarating and all kinds of beautiful.
But the most beautiful parts of that moment weren’t in the win; they were in the work that led there.
The progress of this unnatural runner who essentially just stubborn-ed his way to the top inspired another runner in the family … and when little siblings were invited to participate in one of the middle school meets this season, Superhero 3, the boy with the heart of gold but with the hard history that makes him terrified to try something he doesn’t know he can succeed at, surprised us by asking to sign up.
He’d been watching his big and little brother, and he’d begun to learn that trying and failing was a normal part of overcoming.
The boy we call Superman rocked out that race to a band of cheering brothers.
And when he crossed the finish line, this determined 2nd grader won first place in the 3rd grade and under division … and completed the entire two-mile race without stopping at a time FASTER than his big brother had completed his first cross country race of 6th grade.
The first one to congratulate him at the finish line?
The boy who knew what it was like to find a starting point … and then volunteered to take him out running the following Sunday.
Last Saturday, that boy who started his middle school cross country career at a 9:16 mile set a new PR for himself … of 11:24 for two.
What’s more amazing is that he did it the very same month his post-surgical baby brother — the same boy we were told in China may never walk and who soldiered through two years of therapies and stretches and home exercises and ambulatory devices — set a PR of his own … when he did THIS.
And we got a front-row seat to a miracle more than two years in the making.
❤️😍😭
I’ve gotta be honest.
I love instant miracles. Big victories. Celebratory wins.
And after experiencing all the miraculous “But God” moments that He, in His grace, has gifted our team, I’ve almost come to expect Him to move my people to the finish line the first second I pray.
Because the number of answered prayers in our house seems just unfairly ridiculous.
But over the last two years as I’ve walked beside boys who depended on Jesus and the grit He gifted them to do what only He could do in their lives, moreso than I’ve seen God working the mountain-moving kind of miracle that declares victory in a moment, I’ve seen him executing His miracles through the repetitive, the monotonous and mundane.
Inch by inch. Foot by foot. Sometimes even failure by failure.
The same way He has worked over two years in Superhero 1’s running life.
And this journey of the daily — of the minutia of stretching and exercising and running and repeating — has really changed my perspective.
What if the miracles in my life aren’t actually in these meet-winning moments and these momentous occasions but in the mundane, the being faithful in the small things?
What if the mile repeats and the PT exercises and the daily hamstring stretches on recovering post-surgical boys is actually the holy ground where God prepares our hearts for things to come?
What if His miracles happen centimeter by centimeter and millisecond by millisecond, so that after two years, the boy who once ran two miles at 18:33 is now crossing finish lines at 11:24, and the once-orphan with the superpower the world could only see as a “special need” now isn’t carried across kitchen floors but WALKING them?
What if the holy ground isn’t the one padded by the victor’s footsteps but the one soaked by his faithful sweat?
What I have learned in three seasons of middle school cross country is that races aren’t won in 10- and 12- and 14-minute increments.
They are won in sprints.
They are won in logged mikes.
They are won in the hours and hours invested by incredible coaches and talented therapists and hard and tedious workouts and things called “hill repeats” where runners run the same hill again and again and again.
The same way Superhero 4 repeats the same physical therapy exercises again and again and again.
Since we returned from China with the perfect boy we have always believed would walk someday, I was praying for a miracle of the body.
But what God did in the boys inside our home was even better.
He gave them miracles of the HEART.
He taught them endurance. He grooved in grit. He gave them a warrior spirit to dig into the everyday tasks that require patience and endurance and toughness of heart. And He equipped them with a million mini miracles in the beautiful and amazing and selfless coaches and therapists and trainers and cheerleading teammates He placed in their lives.
And He simultaneously reminded me that His miracles aren’t just at the finish lines.
They’re right HERE.
Here in the monotonous. Here in the mundane.
Where here in the trivial, God lays His heart-work groundwork for the miraculous.
It’s the hardest place. It’s the most tedious place. Sometimes, it’s the most frustrating place. Because the scenery and the schedule can look the same day after day, and on a daily basis, progress can appear slow or even nil.
But it's here in the small things that He hosts His training ground for the bigger things He has in store, and after watching two years of walking and running miracles, I’ve realized it's every bit as much a part of the MIRACLE as the moment I define a miracle by.
We just have to depend on Him for the same endurance for the daily as we do for the day of the race.
"Someday, I beat Superhero 1," Superhero 4 will often say as we’re loading up the van and driving home from a family run or another cross country practice. "I run FIVE miles! I beat him in a race!"
Superhero 1 knows firsthand how God works, and he knows without a doubt what He can do. Because he’s seen what happens when God works miracles not first in bodies, but in spirits, minds and hearts.
“I know you will, buddy,” he tells his warrior little brother every time. “I KNOW you will.”
"Let us run with endurance the race God has set before us." ~ Hebrews 12:1