#PrayforBoston

I'm finding myself really affected by Monday's Boston Marathon tragedy. As a runner, the Boston Marathon is a feat I think of often and the runners who compete in it are athletes I look up to, never knowing their names, faces or backgrounds but admiring them for the ability to push themselves 26.2 miles, sharing the course with some of the strongest runners in the world. Many people who are not runners cannot understand how someone would find joy in the pain, persistence, dedication and drive it takes to lace up your shoes and run. Not because you're being chased or because you really need to get somewhere fast, just because you want to run.

When I look back at races I have run, what stands out most, more than the cramped leg muscles, achey feet and chafed skin are the people who cheered me on. My family on the side lines, strangers calling out their support and encouragement. I close my eyes and imagine the finish line in Boston when the explosions took place and see those familiar faces from my past mixed in with the scene's disturbing images in the media. It breaks my heart.

I've shared here my favorite joke and how I feel it applies to running, "Why did the idiot start hitting himself in the head with the hammer? Because it felt so good to stop." It was like a light went off when I heard that and thought, "Why did the runner start running? Because it felt so good to stop." The finish lines from races I've run are landmarks that symbolize some of the proudest moments of my life and prove to me that my mind, body and spirit are strong enough to carry me when I am tired, when I think I can't go any further, when I think I have no more to give. The explosions took place at the finish line and robbed so many runners of the opportunity to cross, to add that finish line to their life's atlas of ultimate accomplishments.

Hitting me closest to home is the death of Martin Richard, the 8-year-old boy from Massachusetts who was at the race to cheer on his dad with his mom and sister. My mom was a marathon runner before she passed away from a massive heart attack at 42. She is buried in her favorite marathon shirt. I remember watching proudly from the sidelines as we followed her, catching glimpses of this beautiful, strong woman at key points of the course and feeling so much pride that she was my mom. I can't even begin to imagine the way Martin's father must feel in the aftermath of this tragedy but I do think I can relate to the way this child felt before the attack, proud of his father and the other runners and hopeful to one day be strong enough to be among them. He will never have the chance to try.

The point of this blog is to look for the love in life and when tragedies like these strike I think it's even more important to try to find some kind of bright side in the darkness. There are countless images and stories of Monday's heroes. Those people who were on site and instead of running away, ran toward the explosions to help. The doctors and nurses of Boston helping those with severe injuries in their hospitals. Residents of Boston who opened their homes to displaced runners and their families. I feel so helpless and wish I could do something to help, or to prevent something like this from happening in the future but I don't know what to do. 

Really people, what is going on in our world? Where is the love?

my mom, the marathon runner 1994