In a world where we are surrounded by tragedy, inspiration emerges; hope and perseverance are tightly woven together, and anger motivates us to come together as a nation to try to repair what is constantly being torn and shattered.
When tragedy strikes, rather than stand frozen in a state of despair, we move like soldiers; willing to suit up and move to the front of the battle line.
I sit aghast over the tragic events that occurred in Boston yesterday, but while the tragedy directly happened in Boston, it had a deafening and profound impact on our faith, hope, and strength as a nation. Through all of it, as we grasp hands and cling to one another tightly through an unsecure network of technology; the Internet, we are forced into this dismal oblivion where the feeling to escape is between bleak and murky, yet surreal, yet a cold, bone chilling necessity.
There are families; victims; marathon runners, suffering battle wounds; scars that cut deeply into our nation. I want to drive there, press rewind, feel their strength and give them some of my own; I wonder; I wonder if I could be that brave; that strong. My heart cries with each beat. I am happy to be alive. One. Two. Three. My heart. I can feel it. Beating like a drum, marching to the front of the battle line; I am ready. I feel instinctively angry. Fearful. Saddened….
An array of courage summons me. Maybe it’s the sound of the feet racing against the pavement, taking the runners through each mile. Maybe it’s the confusion on their faces, but the feet that never stopped running. Or when the runners heard the sound and began to run, not towards the finish line, but towards the tragedy, towards the unknown; when it turned into people running to find, help and/or embrace loved ones, strangers, rather than people running for a time; for accolades.
I look down and see my legs; my feet, and they evoke images of people I’ve never met, runners I’ve never met, their faces strickened with fear and panic grasping at their wounds or shaking in immense shock for the absence of what was. I want to run there. It seems too senseless to drive. I sit quietly for a moment, and wonder if I could. I mean, run, from Upstate New York, 266 miles. I close my eyes and imagine running freely among trees, blue skies, rain, and thunder. Roads tainted with holes, cracks, and dirt. Running against the unknown; running to finish their race, their purpose. I open my eyes and I’m aware of the innocence I feel from being so far from where it actually happened, and then I wonder if they realize that their purpose has not changed; it has only shifted slightly.
I mourn for the 8 year old boy, his family, and the spectators who gathered to show support for those who participated. They are all victims, regardless of miles, or purpose, we are, without a doubt, all victims.
In another, tragic, desperate attempt to quiet us all; to make us live in fear and abandon one another, we come together and unite, and I can say, at least, that I am humbled.