Peace and no regrets.

(my awkward hand...was I reluctant to touch my dad's sweaty shirt?)

Remember the Boston Marathon? I realized that I never ended up blogging about it. Matt and I and the kids were there cheering on my dad. During the week that followed, I wrote a million thoughts down but never posted them, thinking I'd edit them eventually. But, I'm never going to edit them. So here they are.

>>>

There's no reason that Matt and the kids and I or my dad shouldn't have been closer to the bombs than we were, or that we shouldn't have been stuck in the crowds afterward waiting to get out of the city. No reason other than... 

-Hannah and I walked along Boylston near the finish last year and it was so crazy we could barely move, so it barely even entered my mind to do that again.

-For the first time ever we didn't park in or near the Prudential Center (a huge office building and mall by the finish), but instead accidentally discovered on Saturday a different (much better, much easier to access) neighborhood to park in on the other side of the race route near the Common and Beacon Hill.

-Actually we completely avoided the Prudential Center from the beginning of the weekend, even though we always go there several times, since it had been so crowded when my dad went on Saturday. Having been to the finish line and expo a handful of times in past years we just didn't even feel compelled to go near it.

-My dad's time was slower than usual due to an injury and other delays, so he was at mile 25 instead of 26.2.

My dad told me later that after the bombs went off, he waited for a few minutes to see if he could get more information, then decided to take off through residential streets and find us. While I was worrying about him, he was worrying about us. Locals offered him water and the use of a bathroom and phone. Not knowing my phone number, he called my mom in California, who called me and relayed the message that he was on his way to the Common, where we had agreed to meet.

A few other random things include that he decided not to check a bag this year, so he didn't lose anything. Not his coat, or glasses, or iPhone, or wallet, or anything else that runners normally check at the beginning of the race. We reunited and immediately headed away from the crowds to our car and out of the city in the opposite direction than we normally would have.

We saw my dad at mile 16 and he looked really great. I had been worried since he literally didn't train at all this year due to an injury and a busy schedule. We followed him closely online, and Matt and the kids and I arrived at the corner of the Common, which is a few blocks past the finish line, at maybe a quarter to 3. 

I took Ida to a nearby restaurant to go to the bathroom, and when we got back on Boylston I noticed some fire trucks and more people than usual in the middle of the busy street, heading away from the race. Some people were running, but not many. One girl speedwalked past me tearfully shouting to someone on the other end of her phone, "There was a bomb. We're leaving." I trotted Ida back to the park as fast as I could, told Matt what I'd heard and we deliberated what we should do. He had heard an explosion and a nearby spectator had seen smoke, but none of us really knew what had happened. As minutes ticked by I got more and more nervous and it became clear that something weird was going on. More ambulances, fire trucks, and police cars than I could count sped past us from every direction toward the finish line. (My kids loved this.)

At 3:08 I called my mom (keeping my voice calm as instructed by Matt, and trying to muffle the continuous siren noise) and left a voicemail. Runners and spectators all around us were crying or hugging or pacing. Other than the sirens and the occasional barking from police, "GET ON THE SIDEWALK!" it was quiet and calmer than you would think. Hannah called Matt and he assured her that based on my dad's slower pace, he had probably not reached the finish line. Finally, FINALLY my mom called me at 3:28 and told me she had talked to my dad and that he would find us at our meeting spot. She asked me to update on Facebook and I barely did--spotty cell coverage and low batteries due to excessive GPSing; by this time Matt's phone was dead and mine was almost there. I felt much better knowing my dad was unaffected by the bombs we knew about, but, not knowing whether there would be more bombs, I continued pacing until he came up behind us at around 4 p.m. I knew I would cry when I saw him, and I did.

My kids, in the meantime, cornered in a very boring area of the park, were getting as dirty as was humanly possible, occasionally trying to escape through the fence bars, and enjoying the multitude of sirens and helicopters. I chastised them once for poking some strangers on the other side of the fence and the strangers laughed it off: "We need a little levity right now!" At one point I remember telling Ida, because she noticed that people around us were crying, that I would cry too when I saw my dad because I would be happy. 

When we saw on Twitter (on my dying phone) and on an ice cream truck's TV, that there had been "explosions," I thought I might hyperventilate but a few side-hugs from Matt held that urge at bay.

As Matt and I prayed together while we were waiting to hear from my dad--or my mom--or anyone--I felt renewed by Matt's calm presence and I knew that everything would be fine. This might sound over the top, but although I didn't know anything yet about my dad's condition, I felt an immediate peace that I had no regrets about my relationship with my dad. Death can come at any time to any of us or our loved ones, and all anyone can do is try not to have regrets. Right? I felt that peace and I also felt peace that Matt and I could assess the situation calmly and make the right choices, knowing what we knew just by virtue of being there, despite the fear of future attacks. And also that my dad would do the same although he was alone. Because everything was so uncertain, we talked about leaving the Common and trying to connect with my dad by our car, or just me leaving with the kids while Matt waited, but neither of those options felt right. We decided to stay together.

I will never forget that feeling. It could have ended differently but in that initially frightening moment, I knew that however it ended, we would not have regrets. And looking back, I can see that everything fell into place so perfectly before and after the race to get us safely home. There was no reason that it shouldn't have been an even worse day, especially since our phones were dead or nearly dead and we had three small kids with us. But I know we were watched over and guided. I know the peace of the Spirit helped us (or me at least) stay calm and rational. Once we met up with my dad, we got back to our car quickly and, to our surprise, slipped easily out of the city with no traffic.

I loved Terry Gross's interview with Amby Burfoot (how's that for a sweet marathon-runner name??). Amby won the Boston Marathon in 1968 and runs it every 5 years. He was a half-mile from the finish when the bombs went off.

Amby B. on the relationship between runners and spectators: 

People have this notion that running is about having long legs or big lungs or something. But it's really all emotional and all mental. And the people who are supporting you, be it at the course or knowing that your family and friends are going to be waiting for you at the finish line is a huge part of the drive to get there and be reunited with them and to celebrate what everybody's experienced on the day.

On finishing, or not finishing:

Terry Gross: And not only don't you get to finish, which is pretty trivial by comparison, but also it's proven once again that life is so unpredictable, that no matter how much you prepare for something you never, ever know what's going to happen.
Amby Burfoot: ...I have been running this thing long enough - actually, my first Boston was in 1965. There was a time when my entire soul hungered for nothing but winning this race. And I was lucky enough for that to happen.
But now, you know, I run it with the full knowledge that every mile out there is a gift and every finish line is a gift and knowing that I don't know when it's going to end and be taken away from me or when it will be taken away from others as it was at this year's marathon. So it does teach you some lessons. Marathoning teaches you great humility because it is difficult and you are often defeated along the path.

On moving forward (this is from a Runner's World article by Amby B, published the day after the race):

It was an attack against the American public and our democratic use of the streets. We have used our public roadways for annual parades, protest marches, presidential inaugurations, marathons, and all manner of other events. The roads belong to us, and their use represents an important part of our free and democratic tradition.
I trust and believe that will not change in the future--not in Boston, not at the Boston Marathon, and not at other important public events. Yes, we must be ever-vigilant. We can not cover our eyes and ears, and pretend violent acts don’t threaten our great institutions.
But our institutions did not become great by following a path of timidity and cowardice. And we can only hope that, when pummeled, as the Boston Marathon was today, they will rise again, stronger than ever.

And a line I loved from a post by Ezra Klein, which I read as we raced home in our car very late Monday night:

The fact that other people can run this far makes us believe we can run that far. It’s a happy thought. It makes us all feel a little bit stronger.

I was apprehensive to leave my dad alone that night, but we needed to get back home. Once we were on the road, it felt like we couldn't get home fast enough. Walking in our door at, I don't know, 3 a.m.?, putting our kids to bed, knowing my dad was snug in his hotel bed in Boston, collapsing into my own bed next to my strong husband, I felt completely safe and completely grateful, and still had no regrets.

(Dad at the finish line, 2005)