Sometimes the small accomplishments mean more than the marathon ones.

Back in the 1980s someone dared my husband to run the Shamrock marathon without any serious training or preparation. Always up for a challenge, he accepted. He didn’t set any great records, but he did finish that race. He even had the runner’s patch to prove it. Now here I was, twenty-five years later, clutching that faded patch in my hands as I searched a new generation of marathon runners for my daughter.

Six months earlier, my husband was diagnosed with cancer. Our daughter, Jacquelyn, signed up to run that year’s Shamrock Marathon in his honor. She joined the Livestrong Cancer Foundation team and raised more money than anyone on her team except for the CEO of the foundation. She was even the featured runner for the marathon’s publicity newsletter.

Sadly, she was now running the race in her Dad’s memory. Although she wasn’t quite as unprepared as he once was, her training schedule fizzled down to an occasional walk in the last weeks of her dad’s life.

The morning of the race we both felt raw and anxious. My head whirled with mixed emotions. I was proud of her for wanting to run, but sad by what had prompted it.
“Dad will be with me this way,” she said of her poignant plan to carry her dad’s patch. It was easy to see in her eyes how important it was. She was too nervous to eat, so we packed some power snacks in her layered clothes. I dropped her off near the corral where her pace group was assigned to gather.

I mapped and timed the route of the race, planning to cheer at three intersections where I could easily spot her. As I waited at the first corner I watched lots of different speeds, strides and outfits, until I finally saw the sideways kick of her heels in the crowd. I jumped and waved and clicked photos as she ran by, my throat so tight I feared my mama heart would burst.

The second time I saw her she was smiling. She’d found her groove and her speed, had eaten her power snacks, and shed a few layers of clothes. She waved happily as she trotted by, and I silently thanked the unknown runners around her encouraging each other along.

Because the route eventually traveled deep into Seashore State Park, the third time I saw her was the last. By then, she looked a little tired, and had a vague limp, but was positive and excited, pleased with her pace and progress. I smiled and started the walk back to the car.

I put my hands in my pocket and felt shocked to find Neil’s patch. What is this doing in my coat? That patch meant more to her than crossing the finish, and now I missed my last chance to give it to her. This is so unfair, God, I complained angrily as I stood in the middle of the road. First her dad and now this? Stomping through a few puddles I came to my senses. I found her three times already; how hard could it be to do one more time?

I headed off toward the finish line only to discover the route densely crowded with onlookers. Even standing sideways, the mob squished me, without any clear path to the front. Even the runners crammed into thick groups and it was hard to tell them apart.

I estimated Jackie’s finish time based on her earlier progress and prayed she’d stayed at that pace. As the projected time came closer, I gradually pushed my way through the thick crowd. My head twisted at a painful angle, and I stretched my neck to see the approaching runners.

I knew not to look for her clothes; she would undoubtedly have shed more layers. Instead I looked for her feet using the zoom lens on my cell phone. And then, there she was: those blue-Nike clad feet kicking out sideways as black-blue leggings shifted above them. I disregarded all the ropes, barricades, police and other observers and jumped into the fray of runners.

“Jackie, here’s Dad’s patch!” I yelled. Surprised to see me but quick to understand, she grabbed the patch and shot me a huge grateful smile. Off she sped with renewed energy and a fresh reminder of her purpose. Within a minute I heard her name announced over the loud speaker as she crossed the finish line.

When I caught up with her a half hour later she was floating on her runners high, but her tear streaked face matched mine. Isn’t it funny how things become so very important? Four months earlier, I prayed for a miracle cure; two months earlier, I prayed for Neil’s suffering to end. And that day, I prayed with all my heart that a daughter could carry her Dad’s ancient marathon patch across the finish line of a 26.3-mile adventure. That tiny piece of fabric meant nothing, but at the same time meant everything, and in my heart, I knew Neil was smiling.