Mom was a good cook. Her homemade chili sauce was second to none, and the things she could do with a chicken … well, it makes my mouth water to think about it. I once offered to make my sister Kathy’s bed for a week if she would give me the last slice of toast made by Mom.

No doubt about it, Mom was a great cook — most of the time. If a beef steak was placed in her frying pan, she turned into the anti-cook. She could turn that finest meat into a piece of hard protein with the smell of shoe leather. Of course, she really tried.

One day, my brother Bud took me out for lunch in a popular restaurant and he ordered beef steaks. Since he was paying, I thought I should have at least one or two bites. But when the waitress served our steaks, I was surprised at how good they smelled. Suddenly I understood why others spoke of beef steaks lovingly. I wolfed down my steak. I was a born-again beef-eater.

“You know,” I said to Bud, “I used to think Mom was a great cook. But it’s hard to believe that her steaks came from the same animal as these steaks.”

“Mom is really a great cook,” Bud said. “Think about it. She grew up during the Great Depression (大萧条). That’s when she learned to cook. How often do you think they had steaks? It is only recently that they could afford to buy steaks. So it isn’t that she isn’t a good cook.”

It’s that way with all of us, isn’t it? Even our strengths have elements (成分) of weakness. That’s why great athletes still train and great actors still practice. Greatness isn’t something we are; it is something we become. And that process (过程) of becoming includes learning and growing through both success and failure.

The annual marathon in my town occurred as scheduled. My job was to follow behind the runners in an ambulance in case any of them needed medical attention. As the athletes began to pace themselves, the front runners started to disappear. It was then that my eyes were drawn to the woman in blue running shorts and a baggy white T-shirt.

I knew we were already watching our “last runner”. Her feet were turned in, yet her left knee was turned out. Her legs were so crippled and bent that it seemed impossible for her to walk, let alone run a marathon.

The driver and I watched in silence as she slowly moved forward. We would move forward a little bit, then stop and wait for her to gain some distance. Then we’d slowly move forward a little bit more. As I watched her struggle to put one foot in front of the other, I found myself breathing for her and urging her forward. I wanted her to stop, and at the same time, I prayed that she wouldn’t.

Finally she was the only runner left in sight. I sat on the edge of my seat and watched with respect and amazement as she pushed forward with strong determination through the last miles. When the finish line came into sight, the cheering crowds had long gone home. Yet she didn’t give up and crossed the line.

I don’t know this woman’s name, but that day she became a part of my life — a part I often depend on. For her, it wasn’t about beating the other runners or winning a prize. It was about finishing what she had set out to do. When I think things are too difficult or I get those “I-just-can’t-do-it,” I think of the last runner. Then I realize how easy the task before me really is.

My mum is about to have a spinal (脊柱的) operation. The operation is relatively minor, but does carry a risk of paralysis (瘫痪). Friends and family have reacted to this news by talking in such pessimistic terms that Mum has come to label this kind of talk as “psychological theft’’. It occurs when other people increase your anxiety rather than provide comfort.

Last week Mum went to the post office and ran into Geoff who works for the local school.“How are you?” he asked. “Not great.” she replied. “ I’ve been having some trouble with my back and I’m going to need an operation.” “Oh, the back is the most dangerous place to operate on!” he responded. My mum had that and she was in terrible pain. “Make sure you get all your affairs in order before you go under the knife — it takes months to get over it!” Geoff was out of kindness. He’d given his own mother’s story to show sympathy. However, Mum only heard pain, danger, knife, and months.

In the past few weeks, Mum’s mates and colleagues have told her stories about how their Auntie Trisha, who had just received an operation was left speechless after hearing that she required a rapid follow-up operation; and how their neighbour, who had only a minor operation, never walked again .

It’s really not that difficult to think of alternative things they could have said that would be equally true, but more beneficial to hear. “The specialists in our hospitals are among the best in the world. It’s amazing what they can do these days!”— that’s a good one. “You’re going to feel much better afterwards.”— that’ s another.

I’m not suggesting patients should be sheltered from the reality of the risks they’re taking. But if the decision to have an operation can’t really be avoided, what’s the purpose of emphasizing the drawbacks (弊端)? It’s just common sense to say: “Get well soon, and how can I help? ”