Boston Strong

I usually think about my writing quite a bit before actually writing.  Sometimes for days even.  I begin with a certain image in mind, a certain goal, and craft what I want my message to be well before it actually makes its way onto the page.  That is how this piece began.  Sometimes I am in a very different place, with different thoughts and different feelings when it actually comes time to write.  And then that soliloquy slowly morphs into a new creation through expression on a different level, through the same set of eyes that view the world in a different way.  That is where I am tonight as I reflect on the Boston Marathon of 2013.  I began as a hurt yet determined vessel of hope, ready to share my experiences, frustrations, cowardliness, and courage through this short memoir.  Now I wander, questioning in wonder instead of answering in purpose, and I hope beyond hope that somewhere I am able to find truth in my approach.

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills

When all at once

I saw a crowd.

Nothing particularly new for Boston, especially not on Marathon Monday.  Often I have found myself frustrated with the masses of people swarming Boston’s streets, the constant noise, the commotion, I have frequently yearned for the peaceful sanctuary of home.  But not today.  Marathon Monday is a day to rejoice in the commotion, a day to celebrate accomplishments of both friends and strangers.  It’s a day to delight in being alive.

There is no way to describe the events of April 15^th 2013 in Boston, Massachusetts.  They have left me stunned, saddened, scared.  This bomb hit too close to home.  It hit too close to friends, family, teammates.  It hit too close to streets I run on, stores I shop in, parks I play in, dorms I live in, people I explore with.  It hit too close to me.    

Every bomb hits too close to home for somebody.  And if it takes an explosion less than a mile from my residence but inches from my heart to tell me that then I have not been living in a way that honors the gloriously beautiful life that God has given to me.  I am alive by the grace of God.  Not just today in light of the events of this week, but each and every day that I wake up in the morning, breathe, and place my feet on the floor.  I am alive by the grace of God.  Sometimes big things remind me of that, and sometimes all it takes is

a host, of golden daffodils.

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line.

The runners.  The spectators.  The volunteers.  The race organizers.  The smiles.  Then.  The police.  The ambulances.  The volunteers.  The injured.  The tears.  In an instant Boston was turned upside down.  So many questions racing though my mind, so many questions without answers.

I have dreamed of running the Boston Marathon.  And I still dream, and I still run.  On Monday I ran in Boston.  On Tuesday I ran in Boston.  On Wednesday and Thursday I ran in Boston.  And as long as I am here I will continue to run in Boston.  I was encouraged this week by the support of others running on Boston’s sidewalks.  The chalk on the road encouraging strength, hope, and love, the acknowledgement of the painful memory and perseverance together in the face of someone passing by, the police standing guard on every corner reminded me constantly that I do not dream alone as I choked back tears.

My favorite part of Boston in the spring is this little stretch of trail along the Charles River next to Memorial Drive, right between the BU and Mass Ave bridges.  The trees blossom and when the wind blows the petals in the air are like snow flakes falling softly to the ground.  Perhaps this little reminiscence of home is what brings me such serenity here, or perhaps it is my glimpse of God’s creation within the city bounds.  Daffodils are stretched along almost the entire distance.  Growing in clumps in some areas, and more spread out in others.  They are always the first flowers to bloom in the year.  They lazily make their way down the riverbank, growing amid bare dirt and city cement.  I see them struggle, and yet still bloom in bright joy, proclaiming spring for all the world to see.  And I follow their hope all the way home. 

I like to think that William Wordsworth felt the same way when he wrote this poem; a little dejected by the weather, but still able to appreciate the simple beauty of a flower and a walk with his sister

along the margin of a bay;

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:

I gazed--and gazed--but little thought

What could I think?  The city is in lock-down, another shoot out, another victim.  “One bombing suspect dead, one at large” the news tells us.  We are told to stay inside.  Pictures of men fully armored, carrying guns loaded and poised, creeping in on the target, flow at us from all directions.  Family and friends check in to see if I am safe.  I tell them yes, but please pray.

I cannot thank those enough who rushed to the scene to help, those who lifted and continue to lift broken souls and bodies, those who gave the rest of us strength and courage to hope.  I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  I cannot tell you

What wealth the show to me had brought

For oft, when on my couch

I lie

In the field below my dorm.  Minutes after they have captured the second bombing suspect.  I stare up at the swirling mass of clouds, the wind blowing my hair in my face; I hate it when it does that.  And I thank God that I am alive and safe.  I surrender my fears, and cry knowing that I am loved, and that I am never alone.  The birds dart overhead in a similar way to the mosquitoes over a field in Alaska.  I am reminded of lying in that field in Birchwood, with similar feelings crossing my heart after a hard week that is not over with a camper who tests faith beyond limits.  And I know that for me, and for you, God is with us through the largest and smallest problems, through the greatest and least joys, and all the times in between. 

A marathon is like no other race, and having run sprints, 1 mile, 2 miles, 5ks, 10ks, 12ks, half-marathons and marathons I am dictating myself qualified enough to say that.  In a marathon, you have time to think.  You have time to enjoy the scenery and camaraderie of fellow runners.  You have time to meditate and strategize as your feet pound into the ground, one foot in front of the other.  The quite methodical lull of repetition is juxtaposed to the anticipation and competition of the race.  And I thrive on it.

Philippians 4:13 is a popular marathon verse.  “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.”  The first time I saw it on somebody’s arm my friend thought it was for a guy named Phil who wanted to finish the race in 4 hours and 13 minutes.  Needless to say it is so much more than that.  The melody “Through You I can do anything, I can do all things, for it’s You who gives me strength, nothing is impossible” carried me through the final two miles of my last marathon.  Pretty flowers, friendly small talk, and the occasional orange slice had brought me through the first 24, but a marathon is not a marathon without that final 2.2 miles.  And without finishing, I might as well not have even started. 

Christ fills the void in our lives that nothing else can come close to filling.  We may be able to surround ourselves with friends, pleasures, and highs to create superficial happiness in our lives, or maybe even happiness that is real, if only temporary.  But all of that will fade away, none of that will matter in the home stretch of the race, when the only person possible of carrying you through is Jesus.  And that is what I am realizing tonight, as I construct a web of thoughts, a stream of consciousness, a week of pain, and a lifetime of learning though words on a page

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

Because I know that God is with us.  Because I know that I am not alone.  Because I know that we will come together.  Because I know that we will not forget.  Because I know that we will love.  Because I know that there are helpers.  Because I know that we will run. 

And dances with the daffodils.