I have been sick at heart watching the news unfold in Boston this past week, as I’m sure you all have too. Words usually fail at a time like this, and I’ve started this post many times only to delete it, feeling that anything I say is woefully inadequate.
I’ve always had a particular fondness for the Boston Marathon, having gone to school in Boston years ago. I always loved hanging out at the marathon expo the day before the race, which brought back happy memories of going to races with my dad during his marathon-running days. It was inspiring being in the energetic company of these impossibly fit runners who exuded super-health and joyful anticipation of the upcoming big race. As I wandered around the expo sampling various sports drinks and energy bars, surrounded by the runners picking up their official racing numbers and commemorative t-shirts, I wanted to be one of them: capable of going the distance and doing super-human feats too.
It seems particularly unthinkable that an event meant to be a celebration of monumental endurance and physical achievement could end in such an unspeakably horrifying way. My mind was reeling as I watched the news, recognizing those familiar Back Bay streets where all the chaos was breaking out. I knew that friends of mine were among the spectators or working very nearby, and I have never been more grateful for their Facebook updates letting us all know they were shaken-but-safe.