Resilience is not just built by surviving avalanches or crossing oceans. It is built by the people who show up for us when we have achieved absolutely nothing. The people who stand in the rain just to watch us carry the water. –Bear Grylls, Facebook post, Sept. 30, 2026

Bear Grylls, British adventurer, former SAS trooper, and television personality famous for series including Man vs. Wild, is no stranger to resilience. I recall watching him crawl into the hollowed-out corpse of a camel to survive a desert windstorm during one episode of Man vs. Wild. In this case–and many others–I think resilience may be a gross understatement. Bear Grylls knows what it takes to survive in almost any place and circumstance. Through years of documented adventures, we’ve witnessed his remarkable achievements in the most grueling, inhospitable situations.

Despite his achievements, Grylls understands how indebted he is to those “who show up for us when we have achieved absolutely nothing.” In a recent Facebook post, he recounts an experience when he was nine and was chosen for his school rugby team. He wasn’t chosen to play, however, but to be the linesman and waterboy. One day, when the weather was miserable and heavy drizzle fell upon the field, the sidelines were empty of parents and fans. Except, Grylls said, for “one lone figure.” Except for his father, who stood “there in the freezing rain, waving a silly flag.”

Grylls recalls how his father had driven to the rugby match to watch him carry the water and oranges to the team at halftime. And when he ran onto the pitch carrying the oranges, his father waved his flag and applauded. He writes that “I look back now and realize that lives are made in moments exactly like that one.” It’s this “kind of quiet, steady presence” that “gives a kid the foundation to take risks later in life. Because they know that even if they fail, someone is going to be standing on the sideline.”

Grylls ends his post with this question: Who stood in the rain for you when you were just carrying the water? A good question, indeed. This week, my granddaughter will finish her last high school cross-country season. It’s been a particularly rainy season, and runners have slogged through muck, finishing races with mud-soaked jerseys and shoes. And there have been brutally hot days when temperatures soared into the mid-nineties. Yet, runners have persevered, sweating, slipping, and clawing up and sliding down hills and through puddles. When some runners finish so long after their teammates that the sun begins to set and many spectators leave, there are always those who wait to cheer them across the finish line, who stand to witness the effort and courage it takes to simply finish. There are always “lone figures” like Gryll’s father, who show up and keep showing up.

I had such a supporter in my mother, who attended every track meet, braving the Nebraska wind and sleet with a Hefty garbage bag pulled over her head to keep out the elements. More than her physical presence, however, was her unwavering love and support despite what I achieved or didn’t achieve. She would’ve stood in the rain for me and cheered even if I were just carrying the water or passing out the oranges. I knew this, and this made all the difference in the world.

Recently, I read an article about Jan Merrill, a distance runner who set an American record at the Montreal Olympics in 1976, running the 1500 meters in 4:02.61. She went on to also hold American records in the 3,000 and 5,000 meters, running faster than any American woman ever had. And yet, I’d never heard of Jan Merrill, nor have many, according to the account I read. There weren’t as many opportunities for female distance runners in the 70s, and her greatest competition often came against men. The women’s distance fields weren’t strong enough to seriously challenge her. The author claimed that “she lacked rivals because the sport hadn’t caught up to what she already was.” Though she won title after title, Jan was “never built for the spotlight. She was built for the finish line.” Even those who do achieve remarkable things may not find themselves truly seen. Even record holders may be virtually invisible. Except to those lone figures who bear witness to their courage and talent, who show up for them because they love and believe in them.

Despite the many–and often grueling–hours of grading, one of the greatest privileges of my life has been reading student compositions. In the margins of essays from often quiet, unassuming students, I could bear witness to lives and insights that were privately confided on paper. In many cases, the writing itself was marginal. But what a privilege it was to tell them that I saw them, that the heart of their work was truly extraordinary. I could let them know I would be standing on their sideline, waving my silly flag. In a few cases, I suspect I was their “lone figure.”

We can all think of instances where lives were made in moments like the one Grylls recounts. These moments may seem small and, perhaps, expected–moments where loving parents, or caring friends, teachers, coaches, and supervisors show up. But more often than not, they’re anything but small or expected. For many of us, these moments provide the foundation to take risks in life. And this is no small thing. Moments like this matter deeply.

At the district cross-country meet this week, I’ll be on the sidelines cheering–and tearing up as she crosses the finish line. I’ll be thinking back to her first meet four years ago, when she resigned herself to walking because she could no longer run and, crying as she passed her mother, she gasped, “I can’t do this.” But she has done this, finishing meet after meet, and medaling last week in conference competition. It’s a long shot for her to qualify for state, for the competition is especially fierce this year. But regardless of how she runs, I’ll be the one cheering and waving a silly flag. At least I’ll be waving a silly flag in spirit. I’ll spare her the embarrassment of a wild, flag-waving grandmother. But know this: I’ll be there for her final moments in high school cross-country. And neither wind, rain, nor sleet will keep me away.