Cross-Country is my new, favorite sport. I find it tremendously exhilarating and fun, waiting with anticipation to see the first orange running shoes to come around the corner or out of a wooded area. Saturday was no different as the Habersham Raiders took on several high school teams in Jefferson, Georgia, a 45 minute drive from our home in Clarkesville. The course intertwined between two soccer fields at Lamar-Murphy Park and a male prison – razor wires and all. Spectators joked that such an event should be entitled “Freedom Run” or “Jail Break Race.”  I couldn’t help but wonder what it must be like for these teenage boys and girls to run beside those fences, and if it made an impact in any way.

It is rare if I do not see her, my friend and confidant, Cindy Corbett. Her son John and my son Will are friends. From an early age the boys decided Cindy would win the “best mom” award, and I would be a close second. (It is the story of my life). In khaki shorts, an orange t’shirt, white cap, and a camera around her neck, I spotted her just as my husband and I pulled in. Her bright smile and light mood always attract me. Cindy is an elementary school teacher. Her husband Don serves on the Board of Education; but, her most important position for me is “Tag-Team Parent.”

As a mom of six, I’ve tagged team with some of the best – Bo Hemmer, our daughters, Tara and Collier, danced together; Sarita Davidson, our sons, Bo and Tavarres, played ball together; Allison Brewer, our sons, Ben and Mitchell, did everything together; Lori Monroe, our daughters, Megan and Hart, played soccer together; Kim McClurg, our daughters Madeline and Dory, dance together; and now Cindy.

We’ve watched these boys grow into young men, supporting and loving them, disciplining and worrying over them, and spending countless hours chatting and advising one another. Raising children is all about community. From parents, to teachers, coaches, friends, and even people we don’t know, it is an all-encompassing job. Our children glean something from us all.

It isn’t about who crosses the finish line first, though to watch us jumping and screaming one might think so. It isn’t even about whose kid is hers and whose is mine. (Any spectator out there would not be able to tell from our enthusiasm for both). It is simply about sharing responsibility in parenting young men and women.

I would dare to guess, but that’s probably what God meant for it to be.

A grey cat came into our lives 6 years ago, independent and alone. After all this time, she still refuses the affection we offer.  She tolerates my other cats as long as they eat from their own bowl and not hers. They dare not glance in her direction or sleep in her bed. Life for my grey cat is on her terms, and her terms only.

In the mornings she waits for me at  my back porch door to  follow my footsteps as I feed the other animals. Like a dog she is at my heels when I retrieve the mail at the end of the driveway or take the trash for collection. When our car pulls into the garage, she runs to greet us; but, if we should kneel to pet her, we are quickly reprimanded with a few scratches.

“Smokey,” as we call her, makes trips to the vet like a glimpse of Armageddon. The kids and I start at least an hour in advance to entice her into the carrier. Our vet gears up as if administering aid to a lion and affectionately calls her “the shark.”

But of  my cats, she is my favorite. There is a sweetness about her I cannot explain only to say it is there. I love to watch her wait under the bird feeder or balance on the porch railing in hopes of catching a squirrel off-guard.  She refuses to come in the house even when it is cold.  I forced her in once which resulted in a pure panic attack, requiring me to set her free. She spends most of her day, perched in the kitchen window, watching us from the outside.

Romans 8:38 “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

Several years ago I worked with a group of people administering aid to children who lived on the streets of Russia. A grueling life for these orphaned teenagers, most spent their nights working in prostitution or selling drugs as the ‘grunts’ for middle men. Days existed in the underground tunnels trying to find a dry spot to sleep. If the night brought in enough money to pay-off the pimps who controlled them, they liked to jump on the freight train and ride across the countryside. One young man who once lived that life told me, “It is a momentary escape from hell.”

I was asked to help a girl around 15 who was sick from infections caused by cigar burns on her legs. My job was to clean her wounds and apply an antibiotic ointment – nothing too difficult – and yet when I saw that she was bruised from her knees to her hips, my heart was torn in half. She looked at me inquisitively. “They told me you were from the States,” she stated without emotion, “but you look Russian.”

I smiled at her, suddenly very embarrassed by my nice  clothing and showered appearance.  Before I ventured out with this group, I believed I understood the plight of these people but at that moment, I struggled understanding just where God’s love played a part in this young girl’s life.  The flash light I had asked her to hold for me caught the reflection of the Cross that dangled around my neck. Against the underground cemented walls, it seemed larger than life. Her fingers reached up to stop the gold Cross from swinging and she looked away. “How long before I can return to work?” she asked taking a deep draw on something I was told resembled glue.

“You know there is a place for you at the mission’s house. You’d be able to go to school and you’d be protected,” I began slowly, knowing my friends had tried for sometime to bring her in.

She gathered up her things and without another word, moved back to the cemented “cubbie” she called home. My interpreter helped me gather up my supplies. “She’s a tough one,” he whispered.

“…neither death nor life… neither height nor depth…”

Before we left I removed the chain and Cross from my neck, a gift from a special friend when I graduated from high school and took it to her. For what seemed minutes, she pondered whether to take the offering I extended to her, before quickly grabbing it from my hand and shoving it in her bag.

“…neither the present nor the future, nor any powers…”

No thing. No lifestyle. No hardship. No struggle. No sickness. No drug. No sin. No stubbornness

The leader of the group prayed for the teenagers and then offered his home, as he does each time he leaves, for them to come and be a part.  “We wait for you to join us.”

“…not anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God.”

My son asked me recently if I considered Smokey a part of our family. “Yes, I do,” I responded, “but we are waiting for her to join us.”