10 Signs of Hope After 11 Very Long Days...

BOSTONSTRONG

10 Reasons To Be In Love With Boston

10-reasons-to-be-in-love-with-boston

April 15, 2013

For years, I have attended the Boston Marathon, cheering on friends, family, and strangers alike.  I am always amazed by the spirit and determination of those people who run for charities, in honor and memory of loved ones, and simply for the love of running and being part of such a special and unique event.  My sister, Carrie, has been running marathons for several years now, and when she comes home each April to run Boston, it’s impossible not to get pulled in to the excitement.  She has a passion and determination that, as a younger sister, I admire.

On Monday, as Carrie ran by me at mile 23, I felt what I’ve felt ever since I started watching her run marathons: intense pride.  Upon spotting her, I began to yell, “There she is! There’s Carrie!”  Now, anyone who has watched a marathon with me knows I will obsess over every text alert I get updating me on her progress, panic over potentially missing seeing her, take a million pictures, and brag about her speed.  This year was no exception.  I get both choked up and short of breath when I witness her accomplishing something that means so much to her.

While I’ve always made my way to the finish line to see Carrie after the race, I hadn’t planned to this year.  My mind was immediately changed once I saw her pass me in Brookline, and all I wanted to do was hop on the T and get myself to Copley Square.  As I made my way through the crowds on Boylston Street, I felt the energy pulsing through the masses of people.  Everyone was cheering, everyone was smiling, and everyone was ecstatic to be a part of this historic day in Boston.  The positive energy surging through the crowd carried me along as I searched for my sister and dad.  My poor sense of direction led me first to the steps of the Prudential overlooking the finish line and I thought to myself, “Wow, this is where we should watch from next year!”  As I stood there, witnessing one person after the next cross over the recognizable blue and yellow painted pavement, I felt that same twinge of pride I get when seeing Carrie run, pass through my body, nearly bringing me to tears.  I imagine that all those who run, all those who line the 26.2-mile stretch, and all those who watch from their televisions at home, can’t help but be overcome by a similar sentiment.

I eventually continued on my search for my family, finding them outside of Copley Plaza on Clarendon Street, a couple of blocks down from the finish line.  Carrie was collapsed on a staircase, resting her aching legs, while my dad stood above her, his camera around his neck and a proud smile plastered on his face.  After spending a few minutes together, they left me to find my friends, here from Philly for the marathon, who I tracked down in the family meeting area.  Noting the intense chill that had overtaken the air, we made our way into a café for some coffee, stopping in our tracks at the sound and feel of a loud bang.  Our eyes darted back and forth as we acknowledged the strangeness of it, only to seconds later experience a second jolt.  Agreeing this was an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence, we jumped out of line and made our way back onto the street, while taking to our cell phones only to be greeted by google searches and twitter posts about “bombs at the finish line.”  Suddenly, panic among the faces of passerby was evident.  People were clinging to each other, tears filled the eyes of children being rushed past by their parents, and confusion ensued.  My out-of-town friends began to ask what we should do, and all I could think was that we needed to get away from there as quickly as possible.

Sirens were suddenly sounding in all directions, police officers were urging people off the streets, and as we dodged through traffic away from Boylston Street, I quickly dialed my dad’s cell phone number.  I managed to choke out as much information as I could, and my dad advised me to get out of there.  I told him I was afraid to get on the T, and would call him back when I could.  Panic and tears overcame me and that was when my feet took off.  Running through the traffic-filled streets with my friends close behind, I peered into cars, eventually coming upon an empty cab.  We piled in and urged our cab driver to turn in the other direction and travel away from the city.  He was still in the dark to all that had happened, but listened to our frantic urging.  The four of us proceeded to call loved ones and seek more information.  We were frightened to hear that what we had heard and felt was in fact multiple bombings at the finish line, that serious injuries were being reported, and that we needed to get ourselves away immediately.  We are lucky to have been able to do just that.

On Monday, I felt an intense sense of fear as I saw mothers run past me clinging to their children, tears streaming down faces, confused eyes seeking answers, and heard the panic-filled yells from police officers urging the masses to run.  Yesterday, I awoke and my fear had diminished, only to be replaced by intense sadness.  My heart is truly broken.  Broken for those personally affected by this senseless and wicked act, broken for those who have a connection to the marathon, broken for those who call Boston home.

When I woke up on Marathon Monday, I put a status on Facebook wishing Carrie luck.  I knew she wanted to break her personal best marathon time, and I was hoping hard for the same.  I prayed that our special angel would be with her, giving her the fastest running legs she’s ever had to run with.  Just as I believe she always is, that angel, our mom, was with Carrie in a bigger way than I could have imagined.

We may fight and disagree, as most sisters do, but I have never felt so lucky as I do now, to have Carrie.  Rather than boast about her speed on April 15, 2013, I give thanks for it.

To all of my friends and family who reached out in concern for my family’s safety on that day, thank you.  Those phone calls, text messages, emails, and Facebook posts were a silver lining to an otherwise horrible day.  Amongst terror, I was reminded of how lucky I am to know good, caring, compassionate, and loving people.  The same camaraderie that brings hundreds of thousands of people together on Marathon Monday is what will also sustain this city in the upcoming days, months, and years to come.

LOVE

"Dear Human: You’ve got it all wrong. You didn’t come here to master unconditional love. That is where you came from and where you’ll return. You came here to learn personal love. Universal love. Messy love. Sweaty love. Crazy love. Broken love. Whole love. Infused with divinity. Lived through the grace of stumbling. Demonstrated through the beauty of...messing up. Often. You didn’t come here to be perfect. You came here to be gorgeously human; flawed and fabulous. But unconditional love? Stop telling that story. Love, in truth, doesn’t need any other adjectives. It doesn’t require modifiers. It doesn’t require the condition of perfection. It only asks that you show up. And do your best. That you stay present and feel fully. It’s enough. It’s plenty."