Rise Each Time You Fall

 I wasn't able to sit in Sacrament Meeting for our own ward today because I had Stake business... which meant Joseph was on his own with the kids. I was a little distracted in my other meetings because I was so worried that it was going to be another one of those Sundays where our foster kids displayed their hatred for the Sabbath in every possible way, pushing and resisting, fighting and ignoring, squirming and sassing... you know--the whole nine yards. I just didn't want Joseph to have to deal with that by himself because it's so draining.

You can imagine how pleased I was to find out that everything went well. The foster kids did amazing this time! They got along, they sat still, they didn't complain, or fight, or throw tantrums, or make rude remarks. Even tonight went smoothly for bed.  My foster daughter didn't scream for an hour like she has been for the last couple weeks. She went straight up to bed without a fight. I rotated through each child, scratching all their backs for five or six minutes each. Everyone was contented and everyone went to sleep without a struggle. Wow!

Days like these are just enough incentive for us to keep going.

The Stake business I had to attend to today was another ward's conference.  Bishop Speckheart of that ward spoke first and read this poem. I was glad to be there to hear it because I felt like the words were so applicable for this journey my husband and I are on.  I couldn't stop the tears from streaming down my face. This poem was exactly what I needed! Absolutely perfect!

The Race
by, D.H. Groberg

“Quit! Give Up! You’re beaten!”
They shout at me and plead.
“There’s just too much against you now.
This time you can’t succeed.”

And as I start to hang my head
In front of failure’s face,
My downward fall is broken by
The memory of a race.

And hope refills my weakened will
As I recall that scene;
For just the thought of that short race
Rejuvenates my being.

A children’s race–young boys, young men–
How I remember well.
Excitement, sure! But also fear;
It wasn’t hard to tell.

They all lined up so full of hope
Each thought to win that race.
Or tie for first, or if not that,
At least take second place.

And fathers watched from off the side
Each cheering for his son.
And each boy hoped to show his dad
That he would be the one.

The whistle blew and off they went
Young hearts and hopes afire.
To win and be the hero there
Was each young boy’s desire.

And one boy in particular
Whose dad was in the crowd
Was running near the lead and thought:
“My dad will be so proud!”

But as they speeded down the field
Across a shallow dip,
The little boy who thought to win
Lost his step and slipped.

Trying hard to catch himself
His hands flew out to brace,
And mid the laughter of the crowd
He fell flat on his face.

So down he fell and with him hope
–He couldn’t win it now–
Embarrassed, sad, he only wished
To disappear somehow.

But as he fell his dad stood up
And showed his anxious face,
Which to the boy so clearly said,
“Get up and win the race.”

He quickly rose, no damage done,
–Behind a bit, that’s all–
And ran with all his mind and might
To make up for his fall.

So anxious to restore himself
–To catch up and to win–
His mind went faster than his legs:
He slipped and fell again!

He wished then he had quit before
With only one disgrace.
“I’m hopeless as a runner now;
I shouldn’t try to race.”

But in the laughing crowd he searched
And found his father’s face;
That steady look which said again:
“Get up and win the race!”

So up he jumped to try again
–Ten yards behind the last–
“If I’m to gain those yards,” he thought,
“I’ve got to move real fast.”

Exerting everything he had
He regained eight or ten,
But trying so hard to catch the lead
He slipped and fell again!

Defeat! He lied there silently
–A tear dropped from his eye–
“There’s no sense running anymore;
Three strikes: I’m out! Why try!”

The will to rise had disappeared;
All hope had fled away;
So far behind, so error prone;
A loser all the way.

“I’ve lost, so what’s the use,” he thought
“I’ll live with my disgrace.”
But then he thought about his dad
Who soon he’d have to face.

“Get up,” an echo sounded low.
“Get up and take your place;
You were not meant for failure here.
Get up and win the race.”

With borrowed will "get up,” it said,
“You haven’t lost at all.
For winning is no more than this:
To rise each time you fall.”

So up he rose to run once more,
And with a new commit
He resolved that win or lose
At least he wouldn’t quit.

So far behind the others now,
–The most he’d ever been–
Still he gave it all he had
And ran as though to win.

Three times he’d fallen, stumbling;
Three times he rose again;
Too far behind to hope to win
He still ran to the end.

They cheered the winning runner
As he crossed the line first place.
Head high, and proud, and happy;
No falling, no disgrace.

But when the fallen youngster
Crossed the line last place,
The crowd gave him the greater cheer,
For finishing the race.

And even though he came in last
With head bowed low, unproud,
You would have thought he’d won the race
To listen to the crowd.

And to his dad he sadly said,
“I didn’t do too well.”
“To me, you won,” his father said.
“You rose each time you fell.”

And now when things seem dark and hard
And difficult to face,
The memory of that little boy
Helps me in my race.

For all of life is like that race,
With ups and downs and all.
And all you have to do to win,
Is rise each time you fall.

“Quit! Give up! You’re beaten!”
They still shout in my face.
But another voice within me says:
“GET UP AND WIN THE RACE!”

The Gift of Listening

Once, I heard it said that when others listen to us it stirs creativity in our minds and hearts and inspires us to soar to greater heights.  I know I heard this somewhere and I should have written it down because I've searched and searched for the exact quote but can't find it now.  But in the process of searching, I found some other quotes that follow along the same line.

How grateful I am for those who listen!  I don't think they realize how much it motivates me just knowing that my voice is heard. It gives my words a destination, a place to rest, to belong to, and be held... instead of floating aimlessly in space.

These three quotes express this sentiment more clearly than I could on my own:

"What we call poetry does not simply set the heart free spontaneously, emerging when one is overwhelmed.  A simple recitation of a song when one is deeply moved does not make one cheerful, and does not bring sufficient satisfaction to that person.  Therefore, one finds consolation by making others listen to his song.  When others listen and they are moved, then one's heart brightens up considerably.... When we enquire about the origins of poetry, we see that it is crucial for poetry to have someone listen to and be moved by it.  The original nature of poetry is to provide words with patterns and to make them last long with the voice... There is no better way for someone to cheer up than by knowing that others have listened to his poem and have been moved by it.  If the listener is not moved, one's heart will hardly be set free." -  Norinaga Motoori

“When we are listened to, it creates us, makes us unfold and expand. Ideas actually begin to grow within us and come to life...It makes people happy and free when they are listened to." ― Brenda Uelande

"Writers are listeners as well as observers – not just to their own souls and the heartbeat of the world, but to the souls of others as well.  Listen to the world, and it will listen back." - Susan Hodgetts

To those who read this: with all my heart, thank you for listening!!
Today, I will strive to be a better listener to everyone around me than I was yesterday.
-Alicia