"Our noisy years seem moments in the being of the eternal silence." William Wordsworth

Early every morning, years ago in Lexington, Kentucky, I worked out at the YWCA, first riding a stationary bike and then enjoying a vigorous hour-long swim. Morning after morning, the same folks exercised together, all of us getting in our workouts before our workdays began. One gentleman rode the bike more furiously than anyone I had ever seen. He was a rather stocky guy, with enormous leg muscles--certainly from all that biking--and through the grunting and heavy breathing, with sweat rolling off his forehead in almost disgustingly heavy amounts, he always managed a quick "Good morning, how are ya?" when any one of us walked into the room. None of us in the group ever really engaged in heavy conversation; I stayed focused on my little routine, others on theirs. But a quick nod to acknowledge everyone's presence was always given as a polite morning wake-up.

I overheard this hard-riding-cyclist casually mention to one of the others in our group that he had been having stomach aches, particularly in the middle of the night. It was suggested that he have that checked out. Several weeks later I saw this cyclist friend of mine in the waiting room of the hospital. I was there for reasons long forgotten; he was having some tests done for his stomach problems.

He still came to the gym, but his energy for cycling had clearly dropped a notch. Turned out he had stomach cancer. His diagnosis put him with just a few months left to live.

Towards the end of that time--with pain now etched on his face and with his stockiness a thing of the past--he came and spoke to our Sunday School class at the invitation of another class member unbeknownst to me. It was difficult to sit there and watch this once vigorous athlete surrender to his devastating illness. Yet he left us with a powerful life message: celebrate the little victories.

He told us that for the first time in his life, he came to celebrate the nightly sunsets. That each one was a little victory for him. Each sunset signaled yet one more day that he had survived.

That message has stayed with me this half -dozen years since I last saw him. He passed away a couple weeks after that talk. Fortunately, I had been able to talk with him briefly that Sunday, to let him know just how deeply his life message had impacted me. If I had been the only one who had been touched by it, I believe he would have thought that sharing it had been worth it.

In motherhood, especially, we get caught up so frequently--and so miserably--in the mundane responsibilities of our job that we fail to recognize the small, simple things as little victories. I have come to view simple everyday acts as little victories. When my children make their beds, I view that as a little victory. For after years of role-modeling the morning discipline of tidying up rooms and making beds before coming down stairs for breakfast, it is a little victory when they do this on their own. Without any prompting from me. It is a little victory when my kids eat a messy snack and clean up the kitchen without having been reminded. It is a little victory when one chooses to curl up in his favorite chair and read a great book. A little victory when she writes a letter to a friend, or instant messages someone she hasn't heard from in awhile. It's a little victory when an adult calls me to tell me that my child used good manners. Or did something kind that I might otherwise have never heard about.

It is a little victory when a child has learned to put vowels and consonants together and to recognize that as a word; when she can put up her fingers and tell us that those have numbers; and when underwear with cartoon-characters replaces pull-ups. It is a little victory when teenage drivers pull into the driveway at curfew; when they confess to dishonesty and rebelliousness; and when they replace selfish behavior with selfless acts of kindness.

It is a little victory for me when I hold my tongue; when I get through my daily chores without whining; and when I chauffeur my kids through rush-hour traffic cheerfully. It is a little victory for me when I finish a painting; when I entertain friends; and when I remember someone's birthday.

In motherhood, we hardly ever get the privilege of participating in large victories. We need to accept the reality that progress doesn't usually come in huge leaps and bounds. With loud bolts of thunder and lightning. It comes--almost always--in little victories.

Celebrate them.