Yesterday was a hoot. The campground where we're staying hosted a yacht race on the Rio Grande.

 "It's a dollar to enter. Meet between cabin 25 and 26 at 1:30", the flyer advertised. 

I considered throwing together some little boat using our empty water bottles and then scrawling a cute name on it with the Sharpie I purchased last week at the local grocery, but then decided against it.  

Jason and I decided to be mere observers. 

Ten minutes before the event we walked to the bridge where Fourth of July merrymakers crammed together forming a wave of red, white and blue while they excitedly held their homemade yachts. 

There wasn't room for us, neither on the bridge nor on the river sides nearby. So we walked about a hundred yards down the river and seated ourselves on the damp bank, ready to spectate from a short distance away. 

The boss of the thing held up his bullhorn and boomed the rules followed by a joke that brought about holiday laughter. And then it happened. More than a hundred tiny yachts, made of styrofoam take-out boxes, swim noodles and soccer balls, hit the water below with a splash too fun for words. 

Each boat took its own course; some finding the fastest current, sailing with ease while others were immediately stalled by  a large rock that stuck up out of the water or tall grass on the water's sides.  

Several boats unintentionally found themselves sailing to the exact spot where Jason and I had purposelessly perched. Brush with arms reached out and entangled the boats. 

That's when I found a stick on the bank. I grabbed it and began to gently poke each boat, pushing it back on its course. 

After rescuing the perishing, Jason and I walked to the sandbar where the race ended. There the organizers and excited boat makers stood, waiting for their boat to reach the finish line. We weaved between the small crowd that had formed to find a spot to see the boats come in.  

I saw the organizers formed in a line in the water while they watched the boats closely, ready to snatch up first, second and third place. Cheers escaped the winners while some proud and some disappointed hands picked up the boats. The race was done. 

Jason and I had done nothing to organize or lead this race. We weren't exactly participants either. Just observers; a position we rarely find ourselves in, busy with family and ministry. 

Observing. It seems like it would be the bottom rung of the ladder of importance. Yet I was reminded yesterday of the greatness of being an observer. I thoroughly enjoyed myself being that I wasn't worried about properly forming or explaining the rules, or making sure I caught boat number four that crossed the finished line. 

I wasn't overly concerned with whether or not "The Love Boat" , a raft constructed with plastic bottles and tape,  would hold together.

  Had I been an organizer or participant I would have been too busy, too detail oriented or maybe even too self-absorbed to notice much less give those boats encouragement. 

Nope. As a mere observer, an outsider, I was able to take joy in watching while ministry sailed nearly right in my lap. 

May we remember to show gratitude for those encouragers on our sidelines. May we sometimes slow down enough to do some cheering and guiding too, keeping other's boat afloat in the good race.