Carrying the 2002 Olympic Torch for 2/10 of a mile was the
loneliest and hardest yet most encouraging and exhilarating journey
I’ve ever taken.
“I’ll return with whatever God puts in my hand. Or, if He desires, with nothing but His presence to show for the journey.”
~ Bonnie Evans 1/11/2002, participant in the Olympic Torch Relay, Scottsdale, Arizona.
Carrying the 2002 Olympic Torch for 2/10 of a mile was the loneliest and hardest yet most encouraging and exhilarating journey I’ve ever taken.
The torch is almost a yard long and weighs three pounds. That may not seem like much to most folks, but I have Myasthenia Gravis, an autoimmune muscle disorder, so it was a huge challenge for me. As soon as they handed it to me, I wondered if I’d be able to finish what I’d been invited to do.
Our Olympic hostess explained that the top five inches of the torch is made of crystal so that people can see the fire as well as the fire mechanism. The next two thirds is rough burnished steel sculptured in the form of fire racing up hill, that represents the past. The bottom third is smooth polished silver and has the Olympic theme inscribed on it, “Light the fire within,” this represents the future. We were to hold the torch where the past and the future meet because that’s “the present.”
She closed by saying, “You’ve been nominated because you inspired others while going through adversity. This torch symbolizes that your rough days are behind you and that the best is yet to come.”
Scottsdale had a huge turnout for the Torch Relay. Picture it: a pomp and circumstance parade with the spotlights shining on one person, the person carrying the torch. For 2/10 of a mile, that person
was me.
Crowds cheered, waved flags, smiled and cried. It was overwhelming. I’ve never really liked “all eyes on me” kinds of activities – I’m more of a “paint-me-wallpaper” kind of person. But, this somehow felt right.
I carried the torch pretty well until the point in my walk where large bushes kept spectators from lining the street. That’s when I realized how tired I was. I kept switching arms but neither seemed to have enough strength to keep the jet-fueled fire hoisted into the night sky.
I remembered our instructions, “Support runners are right behind you. If you can’t finish, pass the torch to them and they’ll carry it in your behalf.”
Not wanting to drop my precious cargo, I told myself that at least I’d tried … I’d had my 15 seconds in the sun … there was no shame in asking for help …
Just as I’d convinced myself to quit prematurely, I heard a voice calling out from somewhere close. It sounded like my mom. She said, “Bonnie, you’re almost there. I’m right behind you.”
I turned to look. Sure enough, there was my 73-year-old mom, running along the side of the street, reminding me that I wasn’t alone, believing I could finish.
Just knowing that the end was near and that someone who knew my name was with me – infused miraculous strength into me and I did what I’d come to do.
After I passed the fire to the next carrier, Boomer (the police officer who helped us with the torch) came over to put mine out. He placed a hand on my shoulder while he extinguished the flame and as he did, recited a poem. I don’t remember the exact words of the first part but it was about the exhilaration of carrying the Olympic flame and the emptiness that floods in when it’s gone. However, I’ll never forget the last two lines. He said not to be sad because, “The fire isn’t gone … it’s gone within.”
What’s left “in my hand” four years after this humbling, life-changing experience?
Thanks to my personal entourage of 23 family members, I have 25 rolls of film,
two video clips, scraps, maps, memorabilia, notes, words
and letters. I have the torch that I carried sitting in my office in a stand with my name engraved on it and the date that I carried it.
Every time I look at or touch one of those items, I’m reminded of the trek. I’m reminded that the fire I held in my hand has passed into my heart. I’m reminded of people who love me and believe I can do impossible things. And, most importantly, I’m reminded that the best is yet to come.
