I’ve been watching the news coverage of the explosions at
the Boston Marathon. I was
outraged when I saw the horrible photos of Jeff Bauman, on the ground, his legs
blown off, surrounded by too much blood.
People cried “FAKE!” and “Photoshopped!” I suppose, because their brains
couldn’t wrap themselves around such awful reality. The photos of him being wheeled to the hospital by a
bystander, whose own son died in Iraq, and whose other son, bereft by the loss
of his brother, committed suicide.
The young man, bent over the prone body of another victim, possibly the
young restaurant manager who was one of the three fatalities. The pictures of the young boy, Martin
Richard, who died while watching his father finish the marathon.
Recently I was a spectator at the Austin marathon. (Actually we were coincidentally
downtown when it was happening). I
remember the electric atmosphere, the loud bass of the enormous speakers,
playing enthusiastic music; the paper cups strewn everywhere, thrown aside
after the runners took a quick swig before they carried on their journey; the
police, the medical personnel, the splashes of color in the sponsors’
advertisements. I’m sure that
these snapshots were present in Boston as well.
A few years ago my husband and I stood on that very corner
in Boston, taking pictures of the little church that stands on the corner
across from the Boston Public Library.
Mitch is an architectural aficionado, and loves the intricate
details. As I was a library
student at the time, we spent a great deal of time wandering through the
buildings of the BPL, starting in the modern annex at the back, then moving to
the classical front, admiring the majestic marble lions and the statues
representing Art and Science.
Why do people run?
Is it the flush of endorphins that induce the “runner’s high”? Why would people force their bodies to
such lengths, punishing their feet, exposing their knees and ankles to constant
injury? Can it be good for the
human body to run for that long?
What does it do to the heart, the lungs? For those of us who don’t run, it’s a mystery. After all, didn’t Jim Fixx die while he
was running?
Many years at the Great River Road Run |
My dad, Bill, was an athlete and a runner. After a long career as an international
businessman, (in which he ran, figuratively, to the corners of the globe) he
focused on his physical fitness.
There is a picture somewhere of him in the mid-1960’s on an exercise
bicycle at Clark Hatch’s first club in Tokyo, way before health clubs were de
rigeur. (Clark Hatch was described
as “a cross between Marco Polo and Jack LaLanne”, opening fitness clubs all
over Asia after serving as the Recreation Director at the Tokyo American Club).
Dad had that runner’s body: lanky arms and legs, not an
ounce of fat anywhere. He went to
bed very early at night, and was up before the chickens. He “only” ran half marathons; he was in
his late 60’s and early 70’s when he started. He took part in many of the events in Baton Rouge, including
the Great River Road Run and the Thanksgiving Day Turkey Trot. One year my two oldest sons
participated, aged six and four.
When the starting gun went off, the crowd surged forward, but my younger
son stood rooted in his spot, crying piteously and traumatized by the multitude
and the gunshot. So much for his
running career! (Although he did run cross-country when he was in high
school).
Dad was a NCAA Track & Field Official, and would travel
with two of his buddies all over the Southeast to referee at meets. One of his favorites, he being a
Texas-Ex, was the Texas Relays at the University in Austin. Back at his old stomping grounds, his
life had come full circle. He later refereed at the Junior Olympics and also
volunteered at the Special Olympics.
He was a popular employee at a local women’s health club in
Southdowns, where he opened up every morning at 5:00. Which meant, of course, that he was there around
4:30. He was “Mr. Bill” to the
patrons, loved and appreciated. He
got the job because no one else wanted it. Before he was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins lymphoma, he was
studying to be a certified personal trainer.
So many mornings we dragged ourselves out of bed to go watch
Daddy run. It was usually dark
when we got out there, and as we yawned and stretched, sipping on coffee, part
of us felt a little resentful, longing for the warmth of our beds. But at the same time we were proud of
him. Many a time I recounted the
story of my dad, and his commitment to running. He tried, unsuccessfully, to get me involved in fitness by
presenting me a membership to a health club. He sent me copies of running programs. I once ran a 5K in Baton Rouge,
following behind a platoon of police officers as they sang their cadences. I do love to run, but my arthritic
spine won’t allow it any more. And
I never got to Dad’s level.
So when I hear about some maniac, lunatic, fanatic, planting
bombs at such an event as the Boston Marathon, an event filled with happiness,
enthusiasm, encouragement, anticipation, family!
my mind just cannot grasp “why”.
What insane agenda is served by killing and maiming people who are there
to support their loved ones in their quest to run in a road race? My jaded mind wandered for a bit to the
people who live in Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, for whom this is a daily
occurrence. Not much media
coverage there.
I am certain that God created this world with certain
physical laws, which can’t be broken.
You can’t drive a car into a brick wall without dire consequences. Human bodies get diseases. Yes, people die needlessly. How can we possibly try to understand the
nature of evil? God is grieving, weeping, right along with us. We have to accept that there are so many things we will
never understand.
Dad with all of his grandchildren, 2007 |
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