Our seven year anniversary will forever be emblazoned on my mind because it was a reminder: life is fragile. This world we breathe through each day can truly be a horror story, if not for the grace of God. Waking up to a morning where we celebrated seven years of marriage was sweet. But, being able to kiss my baby boy's soft, wind reddened cheeks to sleep, having the opportunity to hold my sister as she cried on the longest return car ride home ever, and having my husband hug me as we stood in a hotel room on the Maryland-Delaware border the evening of our seven year anniversary? Those were true gifts. Gifts which survived a blast at the Finish Line, where we mingled with countless others just an hour before, and where we stood, my eight month old son riding on his Daddy's shoulders as flags from some of the 96 countries represented in this race of a lifetime blew in a strong April breeze. Flags clapping along with the rest of us for the runners as they reached a goal, some might deem crazy, for which they'd trained for months upon months.
We spent a mere 15 minutes at the Finish Line. But we were there. Our feet kissed the same concrete that received an angry blast just an hour later. And, that being there, being so close to such a horrific act, it threw my heart to the ground. Emotionally since then? I'm up and down, back and forth: in moments, I've found my heart fluttering in disbelief at what happened, what was taken on a sunny, blue skied April afternoon. Then, I reel to my knees in thankfulness. My tears stream from the utter sorrow for those who can't stop the reeling the blast caused. Instead, they are reliving how one moment they stood and the next, were thrown from normalcy into an acrid void of physical pain and loss too deep for others to grasp. And at time, I'm just plain angry, no explanation, just red, hot anger seething from every pore.
Before the loss, before the horrific events unfolded, when we had no clue what the afternoon had in store for us, we rode in on the T, combed Boylston Street on both sides, walked all the way up to Mass. Ave. to make our way to a morning brunch at Steve's. From our window seat, we were entertained by the elite runners who dazzled us with their speed. Next, we ambled down Newbury Street in a roundabout route to the Marathon's Finish Line, visited one of the many open-air restaurant-bars, and made our way back to the T to travel home. This past Monday morning and the few hours just after noon, were a treat. With the streets closed down, big city Boston became one big neighborhood cheering on complete strangers who had agreed to test their physical and mental endurance with a road race. Each runner had a cheering section composed of thousands upon thousands of "friends" from all walks of life, numerous countries & states, and we all joined together to marvel at the feat of tackling and defeating 26.2. The Boston Marathon was one of the most amazing events we've had the privilege to attend. We didn't meet a stranger.
As I think back to how we were protected by God's hand, how we made it home, how Lizard's Achilles Tendinitis kept her from running and if she had, that our finish line visit would have been much closer to the time of the explosions. When I see my little boy crawling around at my feet...and how others didn't make it home or will return home facing completely different emotional and physical circumstances, I can only pray. Honestly? I don't want answers. I am relieved they captured the perpetrators. I do think all involved should be pursued and punished. But, I don't think answers are the answer. Seriously, any answer given falls short of being any type of reason that makes sense. Instead, I have to trust God and His work. I don't understand why this past Monday happened. This side of heaven, I don't think I ever will.
Instead of understanding, I turn to my hope being heaven and the fact that I serve a God who saw beforehand, sees now, and knows the future. As I sit here, thinking about an eight year old, who could just as easily have been an eight month old, I'm weeping again. I have a feeling that might be how it goes for a long while. But, through my tears, I'm trying to remember to see this gift of everyday and to be thank filled to the point of overflowing. And, I choose to stand amazed at the stories trickling out of the sadness versus mesmerized by the news coverage of an evil and misguided few lives. I will focus on those humans who fought to save, who ran back into the blaze and smoke, those who refused to back down when evil raised its ugly head. My eyes will soak in the grace infused through the madness. My heart and lips will pray for the hurting. My hands will hold my baby boy. My arms will let hugs with loved ones linger. And, my feet, though I don't ever see them training for a 26.2 miler, they will be there with cow bells on, to support Auntie Lizard when she qualifies for Boston, again.
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