This is a good daily email from "Chicken Soup for the Soul"; for any of us who have ever 'felt sorry for ourselves' and maybe said, "Why is it always my turn?":

The Competition
By Lori Bottoms

Me, again?

The band director looked sympathetic when he came to me. "Lori, I am sorry to ask you again, especially since you spent so much time making these new flags for us, but I need someone to pick up the flags during finals competition tonight."

"Aw, Tom, I really wanted to see the new flags from the stands today. I worked the preliminary competition. Isn't there anyone else?"

Tom looked around and saw the backs of the other parents as they wound their way into the football stadium seats. "You know how it is, Lori. I'd really love to tell you I can find someone else, but I'll be honest. I've already asked several of the parents and they all said they couldn't do it. I know it's unfair for me to ask you, but...."

I smiled at the distraught band director and patted my old friend's arm, "It's okay, I'll see them on the videotape. I'll do it."

He looked so relieved I had to laugh. "Now, go get your band ready, Mr. Stout. I'll see you later."

Knowing the routine well, I walked toward the pit crew to wait with them until we were told to take the field for competition. While I waited, I glared up into the stadium seats at the other parents as they greeted each other and took their seats. My eyes narrowed as I stared up at them and I certainly was enjoying the pity party I was throwing myself. How dare they? I thought. Why do they think they never have to do the work and that I'm always so happy to do it?

I felt a tug on my sleeve and glanced over to see one of the drummers hesitate beside me. "We've been told to take the field, Mrs. Bottoms," he said quietly. "It's time to go."

Shaking myself out of my pity party, I patted the drummer on the back, whispered, "Let's get 'em!"

He smiled, the tension disappeared and I followed him onto the field with the band.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of my daughter as she carried her armload of flags onto the field. Her color-guard uniform shone gold under the stadium lights as she set her flags in their waiting position, then turned and took her first flag with her to her starting position.

The announcer's voice boomed over the loudspeaker, "The Pride of Broken Arrow - you may take the field!"

The drum major's whistle sounded, and the band began to thrill the crowd. Together, as if all 200 kids were one unit, they swayed with military precision, first this way, then that, each student knowing exactly where he needed to be. Even from the sidelines, the perfect cadences amazed me. Their music was astounding and flawless.

I was shaken out of my revelry as the first song ended, and the color guard rushed to the front lines to drop their flags, crouched to pick up their rifles and waited for their cue. I knew what to do. I bent low and began to run from one end of the line to the other, picking up the discarded flags as I went. I lost track of where I was and concentrated on picking up each flag as I ran.

Suddenly, I was at the end of the line and I quietly laid the flags in a pile to be picked up as we left the field. A pause in the playing helped me hear the whisper. The little voice reached me and it sounded like, "I love you, Mom." It was then that I realized I was bending very near my daughter. I looked around, and my eyes locked with hers. Her smile told me it was her words that had reached me. She winked, heard her cue and moved back onto the field without missing a beat.

The rest of the evening went by quickly, and soon it was time for the awards ceremony. All ten finals bands marched proudly onto the field to await the competition's results. My work was done, so I started to fade away into the crowd, but as I was walking away, the band director caught my arm and said, "Come on, you are going onto the field with us."

I was surprised, but I understood he was trying to make up for my missing the show from the stands. Smiling, I followed the band and proudly stood with the directors at the back of the field.

We took our share of awards that night, but we still held our breath as the announcer boomed over the intercom, "And the winner for this competition is ... The Pride of Broken Arrow!"

As the drum major accepted the award, the band was near to bursting with excitement. I could feel the electricity in the air while the kids stood at attention waiting for the director to dismiss them.

The announcer once more, "Congratulations to all of tonight's bands. This concludes the ceremonies."

Tom turned to his band and said, "Way to go, kids!"

Then he nodded at the drum major who said, "Band dismissed!"

Pandemonium. The kids screamed, they hugged, they jumped in the air. I spotted my daughter across the sea of band members and watched as she made her way toward me. She threw her arms around my neck and noisily kissed my cheek. We looked into each other's eyes and shared a precious moment that required no words.