As this year draws to a close, I still remember the fear I felt on a bright Saturday morning in late September, at a five-kilometer race in Clarkston, Georgia, as I waited for my 11-year-old son at the finish line.
I knew he could run a 5k in about 30 minutes. When I didn't see him at the 35-minute mark, I began to wonder what had gone wrong. Had he gotten lost? Was he hit by a car? About an hour earlier, when we drove into town, my son noticed an insect on my car. It was bright green, no longer than a fingernail. And it was friendly. This little green thing hopped onto my son's finger, where it stayed for a long, long time. It stayed so long that we eventually gave it a name: Little Friend.
A few minutes before the race, Little Friend jumped off my son's hand and landed on the sidewalk. But pedestrian traffic was heavy and unpredictable. Little Friend was in danger. So my son knelt and reached out his hand. Little Friend came back.
The race was about to start, and the tiny green insect was in for a wild ride. My son would run fast, and the race would be long, and his arms would swing, and Little Friend would eventually be shaken off.
"You will lose Little Friend, "I told him.
My son nodded, treating the moment with appropriate seriousness.
The race began, and I lost sight of him.
The excitement at the finish line gave way to anxiety when my son did not show up.
I kept asking people if they'd seen him. No one had. And beyond the 40-minute mark, I was in a panic.
But there he was, thank goodness, just ahead of the 45-minute mark.
And there was Little Friend, riding on the upper crook of his right thumb like a very small captain on a very tall ship.
My predictions had been wrong. My son had not run fast, and he had not lost Little Friend. And these two facts seemed somehow related. He blamed a cold he was getting over. I suspected it was more than that, but I didn't question him too much about it.
We walked back to the car, smiling, and found some bushes in the parking lot that seemed like a good place for my son to drop off Little Friend.
"Be free," my son said, and gently put it in the bushes.
My son knew the truth. Sometimes life gives you something beautiful, a fragile, short-lived treasure in your hand. There is no need to rush ahead. Treat it gently. Enjoy each moment. Hold on while you can.
One day my son will leave too, running off on his own adventure.
