When life changes direction on us and we wait for the dust to settle, there is a redefining moment — a time to reevaluate and rethink who we are, what we’ve lost, and how to move forward.
Before the Aug. 6 accident, life was moving on at a good clip, my book was ready for a last edit, I was actively involved with the writers’ group, getting healthy, making plans for my grandson’s football games,and day trips to see our grandchildren in Castle Rock, Colo. I was very content with my life as it was. Perhaps it’s where my life is going now that I need to make some readjustments.
After the accident, life stopped for a while and then took on other responsibilities — healing for my Sweet Al and me. Al needs more emotional attention and I need weekly visits for physical therapy to be able to walk again without pain. We are moving forward, still in the race, but with a different focus.
My whole concept for life was to fulfill my potential and make every day count. Painfully moving from a wheelchair to a walker, life has taken on a whole new direction that needs a new attitude, energy and a desire to finish the race. I’m not going to be flying over the finish line, but hobbling over it.
A newsletter came from Jessica, a young writer who has been with the writers’ group for 10 years. She joined the group when she was 18, quiet, and shy. She explained in the newsletter how she is formatting a book for a gentleman, promoting other writers, doing extensive marketing and preparing for a book signing planned with other writers.
That newsletter brought a jolting discovery: “Hey, wait for me. I feel like I’ve been left in the dust.”
Suddenly, I was lagging behind, no longer in front setting the pace. Life moved on and I lost several months in the process of healing. I missed my release deadline for my devotional book and the book-signing party.
I’m not one to miss a deadline. I needed to reevaluate and rethink who I was, what was expected from me and what I needed to accomplish. I’m sure older people who have lost their spouse, fallen or broken a hip must rethink how they see themselves when their lives are turned upside down. No longer doing, but being done for. Yes, it’s a very jolting moment, realizing it would be a slow process of getting back in the race and moving in a slower pace.
I was reminded of a speech I gave at the 1986 Shelby Art Gallery Conference in New Orleans. I called it, “It was Mario’s race.” I had become the top salesman for three years among 400 sales people in 40 galleries and I was asked to share my secret of success in selling art.
I went to the podium. I took a deep breath, stood silent and leaned into the microphone. My strong, confident voice reached the ears of the anxious salesmen in the hotel conference room.
“It was Mario’s race. This race was supposed to be Mario’s race. No one could take it from Andretti. He had the best car, pit crew, reputation and was seasoned. He was an American hero. Every one believed in the older, mature race driver and they predicted him another win. All the shouts were for Mario.
“But sitting in the car next to him, a 35-year-old rookie from Louisville, Ky., who had recently signed with the Penske Team. Unheard of. His name? Danny Sullivan.
‘“Start your engines’ — a shout came from the sideline. The race began. The huge crowd roared in anticipation as two drivers went into Turn 1.
“The announcer, stunned, spoke over his unbelief. ‘Sullivan has dipped under the white line on the apron while Andretti is hugging the racing groove. Sullivan has cleared Andretti’s car. Sullivan has done a complete 360-degree spin to the left, almost invisible in a huge cloud of smoke. He has passed Mario. This is the most memorable moment in the Indianapolis 500 history and has unfolded in a split-second.
“‘He has taken the checkered flag in the 1985 Indianapolis 500. This race will always be remembered as the “spin-and-win” victory. It is Danny Sullivan’s race.’”
I asked the salespeople, “Whose race was it? Danny’s or Andretti’s?” They pounded the table and yelled, “Danny.” They too believed they could be Danny Sullivan.
I waited for the room to calm. I leaned once again into the podium. “No. Both.”
Both were in the race. The veteran knew about winning; he had to handle defeat and step into the race car again. The rookie, new to the race, would learn about winning. He would be tested to see what he was made of in order to continue racing.
“Whether we spin and win or we’re beaten by a rookie and we lick our wounds, a successful salesman won’t quit. We pick up our sales book, show another piece of art and keep selling.”
Andretti stepped back into the car for another race and kept driving. He was a pro; he didn’t quit. Until 1989, he was the only driver to win a Formula One World Championship and an Indy Car National Title. In Indy cars, he owned 51 career victories, four national championships and more pole positions than anyone else.
Sullivan, the rookie, went on to earn 17 wins in the CART Indy Car World Series, including the 1985 Indianapolis 500. Sullivan won the 1988 CART Championship and placed third in points in 1986.
Today, both drivers have stepped out from behind the steering wheel, but they are still building their careers in the racing world. Sometimes we have to get out of the car, rethink where we are and move in the direction we are given.
Final brushstroke: For me, drivenness has eclipsed into a slower pace. I don’t have to be the fastest, the most productive and win the pole position. But I do have to be honest to my craft and continue in a direction God has asked me to go. I’m not leaving the race track. I’m slowing down to learn about where I am today. I’m letting the hotshots pass me by. It’s really not about the win, but how we stay in the race.
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