At the Footraces

I was never big on participating in the 24th of July footraces at the park. But I liked to watch them. I especially enjoyed seeing the little kids run, the one- and two-year-olds who could barely make a straight line down the course.
They were fun to watch because they didn't understand the concept of a race. All they knew was that their mom--or dad--was down at the other end, arms outstretched, calling for them to run as fast as they could. The little ones didn't care about the other kids who were running. Their eyes were fixed on the parent at the end. And when the word "go," came, off they toddled.
The distance wasn't far and when they'd crossed into the waiting arms, there were shouts of glee from everyone watching, no matter who came in first or last.
Sometimes, a child's eyes would stray. He'd look left or right, see the crowd, see the other kids racing, and lose sight of his parent. Usually he'd stop, stare around confused, then start to cry. When that happened, someone would come to the rescue, point him in the direction of the waiting arms, and off he'd go again. When he finally reached the end, the cheers would be as great for him as for those who'd already crossed the line.
I watched those footraces every year as I was growing up. And I think that's why they came back to me as a missionary when I had a talk to prepare. The parallel was clear. And since then, I've tried to remember the lessons I learned at the footraces: 1., to keep my eye on the Father who's waiting with open arms, 2., to not compare myself with others who are running alongside me because there is room in His arms for everyone, and 3., to remember that no matter how many times I trip, fall, stumble, or get lost, all I have to do it get up and keep going. He'll still be waiting, with arms outstretched.