I read a book about Terry Fox to my kids many times over the years. He lost his leg to cancer and decided to run across Canada on a prosthetic to raise money for research. I always cried, even though I know how it finishes.

For much of his journey there are throngs of people lining the streets cheering wildly for him, donating money and taking his picture. He had an enormous amount of resolve for his goal, yet there were long stretches in the 3,000 mile journey when he was vulnerable to despair. At one point his family surprised him and followed along in a van up a tough hill. Another morning his hockey hero Bobby Orr showed up at his hotel room asking for a run. I will never know how far he would have made it if there were no enthusiastic supporters calling his name, if every step he took was in solitude. But I have a hunch he would have petered out sooner.

When I had three little kids under five I was on my own marathon. I remember coming home in the summer to visit my mother. Although I could not have articulated it, I wanted her to give me a standing ovation. 

I longed for a support team for our marriage too. I ached for someone to simply check on us.  Cheer for us. I wished the minister who married us would take us out for lunch and ask how we were doing. I wanted a five year ribbon, a ten year badge, a thirty year trophy. But our society has not yet figured out how to do that. People say happy anniversary, which is nice. But I want to acknowledge that the run has been hard, the inclines took my breath away. There were times I fell and barely got up again.

Mentoring is an effort to offer encouragement. It places one couple in your corner, who applauds when you are sprinting and listens when you are tuckered out.

By the time mentors are as common as fans at the Boston Marathon all of us will make it farther on our way.