c. 2000 Religion News Service

(Dale Hanson Bourke is the author of five books and the mother of two children.)

(UNDATED) The sounds of the choir joined forces with the sight of the morning sun just as the voices rose in unison, “I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free.”

And then, more softly and with obvious emotion, “For his eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.”

For those of us in the audience, it was a particularly touching moment. This was not a church service but a prerace rally for the annual Race for the Cure. The choir consisted entirely of breast cancer survivors proudly wearing their honorary bright pink T-shirts.

The vast majority of us gathered on the Mall last weekend wore white T-shirts. But there were thousands in pink _ a sign to all of us that women were surviving breast cancer in growing numbers.

After the choir concluded, an organizer thanked God for the beautiful day. At any other rally the spiritual overtones might have seemed politically incorrect. But no one seemed to mind.

As one survivor standing near me said, “You can’t make it through without some kind of faith.”

Some survivors had numbers written on the backs of their shirts signifying their years in remission. There were fives, eights, even double digits.

And there were the women in pink with telltale bald heads and lashless eyes, still obviously in the midst of their battles. Some sat in wheelchairs or walked slowly, but with the determined faith that they would return next year and the year after.

When it came time to start the race, some of the runners took off, but the rest of us moved en masse slowly down Constitution Avenue, a street that usually accommodates heavy traffic but could barely contain the huge crowd. As we neared the Capitol we doubled back on Pennsylvania Avenue and as each group turned they seemed to stop for a moment.

When my turn finally came I realized why. The crowd had so covered the Mall it formed a moving mosaic of pink and white. Those of us in white shirts formed a background for the brave women in pink whose vibrant color dotted the expanse from the Washington Monument to the steps of the Capitol.

By the time the race was over, women who had never met before were swapping life stories. Those who had survived seemed willing to share what they could with the rest of us who were all aware that, but for the grace of God, we, too, could be battling breast cancer.

One woman in pink asked for directions then struck up a conversation with me. Waving to her husband she offered, “I was one of the lucky ones. My husband supported me through it. Lots of men just run.”

As he approached she added, “Breast cancer really brings out the best and worst in people. But those of us who survive learn how precious life is. A woman who has survived breast cancer isn’t afraid of much after that.”

The crowd began to disperse and I stood for a moment watching the women in pink laughing, talking, surviving. Some might not make it to next year’s race. Some of us in white would be in pink by then. But none of us would have to go through the ordeal alone.

For the rest of the day I found myself humming, “For his eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.”

DEA END BOURKE