As a runner, and as a person, I’ve been horrified by the events that transpired in Boston today. I can’t help but think of the faces of my family as I rounded the corner, heading towards the finish of my last race. That moment where I saw Courtney on Paul’s shoulders and Patrick peeking between the fences. The joy of seeing my family there to celebrate my accomplishments with me. What happened today brings a lump to my throat, my chin quivers and I struggle to keep my emotions in check. A happy occasion, an event that lends itself to celebration, a moment in time when the tears should be of joy and not horror.
I’ve been grateful today to be able to seek solace in my family and the kids as they run around the yard, picking flowers and laughing together. I didn’t bother with the normal battles of eating their meals and clearing their plates. It didn’t matter. Like with the Newtown tragedy, I’m grateful that my kids are only 4 and 2 and I don’t have to attempt to explain what happened today. I know my days with Courtney are numbered when her age lends itself to blissful ignorance. She won’t hear about Boston or Newtown from me but she may hear about them from a classmate who has an older sibling. And then what do I say? The world should be full of butterflies and princesses. Not death and murder and things that don’t make sense. Because really, how do you explain these things? What do you say to make sense of it all? There’s no sense in this.