On Boston

On Boston

This past Monday, something unimaginable happened. Bombs exploded at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. I knew several people who were running, but was not watching it on line like I do Kona. I had a busy day and had just got back from running several errands. I fixed myself some lunch and turned on the TV to watch some DVR’d shows. But what was on the screen I didn’t understand. Couldn’t understand. As what I was seeing caught up to what I was hearing, I started to cry uncontrollably. They played the tape over and over again and I still couldn’t understand…my brain could not wrap itself around what was happening. I pulled my lap top from the office, lunch forgotten, and tried to search for my friends. Were they safe? Thank God for FB because one by one they posted that they were okay. Prayer requests poured in for their friends who had gotten hurt; people were frantically searching for their loved ones. The Hoyts (teamhoyt.com) were running their 31^st Boston Marathon and the four hour mark is when they normally finish. Where were they? Their FB page was full of people pleading for info on their whereabouts and safety. Finally it was posted that they had been near the 25 mile mark when the bombs went off and were safe.

As the coverage continued and the injuries explained my mind became numb. I knew instinctively that it wasn’t the same terrorists as 9/11. I knew they were young and from here…they had to be. No one but people from either the running community and/or Boston knows the significance of that day; of that race. It was specific, what they did. It was intentional. It was cruel. I know that sounds like I am stating the obvious, but the way it felt was personal. To me, to everyone. More so than Newtown or Aurora, because they targeted everyone.

And maybe I feel it is personal because this is my community. My peeps. I am a runner. I run…injured back notwithstanding. I race. I’ve done 5k’s, 10k’s and a few ½ marathons and I’ve spectated at just as many. The running (and triathlon) communities are simply the most positive, encouraging, fun, open, accepting communities out there. Everyone is happy on race day; everyone is smiling; everyone is cheering on strangers. Even if you have a bad race or get injured or bonk, there are people there to build you up, cheer you up, and support you. People cheer you in whether you are first or last. And as Boston is the mecca, well, it just cut me to the core. Those bastards.

As the investigation got going I just didn’t want to hear about the people responsible. I thought it was one guy, young, as I said. Once they announced that it was two, I understood that and just hoped the media would not name them, would not tell us all about them, not plaster their high school year book photos for all of us to see. Then they released the video of them walking with the bombs on their backs and it just made my heart hurt. And the questions just popped into my head…what happened to you two to make you hate your fellow man so much that you’d lay a bag at their feet to explode? They were so young…and everyone had such nice things to say about them. Which makes it harder somehow. And eerie, as reports that the younger brother went back to school as if nothing had happened and that the older had a wife and young daughter.  

The answer to the whys, for me, is always the same; we live in a fallen world and in a fallen world, until Jesus comes again, evil exists, reigns even. We are a people that kill each other. If we feel hurt, or forgotten, or tossed aside, as our culture loves to do, or people disagree with our point of view, we let our anger build, we focus on ourselves, and in our hurt and anger, we take it out on the people who we perceive as hurting us. Cain killed Abel because he was jealous of God’s praise to his brother and God’s rebuke to him. Why did these two brothers turn their hate on the people of their own community? Only the coming days will tell us that…but quite frankly, I don’t care.

Because there are a million other ways they could have handled their anger, disillusionment, or self-loathing. A million other ways to share their point of view. I don’t believe there is any good explanation or justification. Bad childhood? Wah. Ignored by people? Welcome to planet Earth. People don’t like your point of view? Try being a Christian. Led astray by some subversive terrorist group? Yawn. It’s almost a cliché now isn’t it? And knowing why won’t un-shatter the lives of those lost, maimed and injured. It won’t undo that they brought their stupid violence into an event that has been around for over a hundred years. Into an event that celebrates the wonderful spirit of human competition from world class runners to the weekend warrior who busts his or her respective butt to train and push themselves to qualify. It won't undo that we now live in a world where people bomb sporting events.

I know a lot has been said about the city of Boston and the wonderful, heroic people who rushed to the fallen, seeing things no one should ever have to see, in their eagerness to help. My words fall short in my admiration for these people. What I feel for what they did cannot be expressed adequately. There is no way to honor them properly, but my heart swells to a fullness I can’t describe when I think of what they did. And the fallen and injured themselves. The little boy who died and his sister and mother both gravely injured; the two brothers, who each lost a leg. A newlywed couple, each losing a leg. The one man who lost both legs but was able to help identify the suspects. Such bravery. Such heroism. Such an example of that human spirit that no bomb can ever, ever shatter. The Yankees playing ‘Sweet Caroline’; Chicago posting in their paper that they were the Chicago Red Sox, Chicago Bruins, Chicago Patriots, etc. Beautiful examples of ways to love each other. Simple really.

Now that one is dead and the other captured and apparently fighting for his life in a hospital, their crime will become a footnote. It has already faded, not because it is insignificant, but because the goodness of people has already out shone their violence. The police, FBI, AFT, and all the other agencies swooped down and made a statement that no one that does wrong will prevail. The crowds that lined the streets to cheer on law enforcement after the capture was unprecedented. And they deserved every, single, cheer.

As I looked at pictures of the day, Farther Along by Josh Garrels came on my IPod and his words and the haunting music brought fresh tears. It’s posted below…his words are true. In this fallen world…”I wonder why, the good man dies, the bad man thrives, and Jesus cries because He loves them both.” It is hard to understand and make sense of this stuff and I do try and look for the miracles, but the idea that my Saviour grieves for those two bombers humbles me and again takes me to a fullness of heart that has no words.

On Being Injured

On Being Injured, or Hurt, or Sick

I injured my back in August trying to pull Timber away from a stray dog that had attacked him. Timber is a good sized dog…86lbs and is tall. When he leans against me, his head it at my rib cage. So, when he got attacked and started pulling, I pulled, he pulled, I pulled and a displaced rib and raised hip later, I have been in a good amount of pain ever since.

And this is just the latest in a long line of injuries and sicknesses that I have endured for most of my life. Right off the bat, I was sick. When I was born, three weeks early, I almost died from RH poisoning. Basically, my parent’s blood did not mix right in me and I had to have a transfusion to keep me alive. I guess I wasn’t supposed to make it…between being a premie and an RH, my time was almost up before it started. But, make it I did and it seems since then, I have gotten more than my fair share of illnesses or injuries.

Let’s see, there was scoliosis in grade school, which I obviously still have; mono in high school; a wrist injury that ended my gymnastic career because I didn’t tell anyone about it until it gave way on the bars during a routine; my big honkin calves started when I ran track in college, swelling so much and into such rocks that I used to have to go to the trainer before and after (sometimes during) practice to get icy hot massaged into them; debilitating migraines; Fifth Disease in my mid 30’s, which is basically a childhood disease but when you get it as an adult it knocks you out for 3-6 years. And it took them 3 years to diagnose me; severe tendinitis in my rt elbow, which I still deal with; plantar fasciitis; a stress induced rash on my hands that was so bad I had swollen bubbles on my hands and fingers; injuries from my 70.3 crash; various pulled muscles, strains, and the like just from running and being active; pneumonia; and now this back injury that just won’t go away.

And, this being my 50^th year, I’m getting tired of it. All of it. It is hard for me to remember a time when I haven’t been in pain in some way or another; a time when I haven’t had to endure something to just freakin exercise. For years I’ve had no sustainable fitness and that is majorly frustrating for me. I barely train for races because, let’s face it, the odds of me getting hurt in some way is so high, I really just can’t stand the disappointment anymore. So, for the past few years, I train just enough to get me through the race and always wonder what I could do if I could actually train to my full potential. I wonder if I’ll ever know.

It’s not just the physical pain; it is the emotional pain, the shame, the embarrassment, and the enduring of what people think of you. Because people think less of you when you are hurt. Maybe not at first, but eventually they do. They believe somehow that you aren’t doing all you should, or you are milking it for attention, or you are weak. Their actions and attitude toward you shows you exactly what they think of your little injury or sickness…and sometimes that judgment hurts worse than the injury itself. If I come to your house and my back hurts to the point where I can’t get off your couch, and you go and leave me, well, that speaks volumes. And I wonder…do you want to shame me into getting better? Do you honestly think I’m doing this on purpose? The actions would say yes to those questions. You think it is my fault and if you are just mean enough, in a nice sort of way, I’ll understand you don’t like me injured and bounce off the couch healed.

Or, I’ll grab the next plane out of there and now have the added pain of broken trust to deal with as well as an aching back.

And I wonder why we are like this? Why do we look down on people who are hurting? Be it emotional or physical, our noses get really long when looking at people with either of these maladies. Unless you break your leg spectacularly on national television and get the support of a nation, you will have to go it alone and endure the judgment that comes with it. My yard is a mess and the neighbors judge; my house is a mess and people judge; my body is expanding and people judge; I am not as happy go lucky as usual and people judge. I complain about my circumstance and people judge. I’m cranky and people judge.

So, what I do is push. I push too hard too soon because I have been taught since childhood that no one likes you when you are a less than. And if you are injured, you are a less than. The second I start to feel better I walk farther. I add in some sprints. I’ll do burpees, pull ups, and hold a plank for two minutes. I’ll start planning how long it will be until I can run and calculate when I’ll be able to race again. I’ll start to feel like I belong again, only to have my body tell me otherwise and I’ll be back on the couch resting and dreading the coming judgments. Because the other side of all this is how isolating being injured or sick can be. And this is just one more thing you have to deal with. No wonder I push.

This being my 50^th year, I just have to say, all this is not in my plans. How can I accomplish anything I wanted to do this year if I can’t get off the couch and am seemingly losing friends who are annoyed with my circumstance along the way? Because, as I’ve learned, no one is going to come sit on the couch with me. My visions of being somewhere fabulous as I turn 50 (NYC or Disneyland or the beach) with my friends and family around me are slowing fading away. The 15lbs I want to lose by my 50^th is also getting further and further from reach. Let me tell you it’s quite difficult to lose weight when you can’t do any sustainable cardio…and I’m going on six months without now. What makes turning 50 better is the great things you wanted to do throughout the year; and really, those things aren’t possible from the couch. And I really, really, really don’t want to be in pain anymore. Any. More.

But, short of a miracle, and I’ve prayed diligently for one, the pain is here to stay. I’ll try another doctor for another opinion, I’ll try more physical therapy, but I am starting to lose hope. Because this is all very hard. Being alone, enduring all this alone with no support, is very, very hard.

Luckily, the Bible is filled with people who were cranky and complained or lamented; Moses crabbed about the Israelites, David wailed his sorrows to the heavens, Solomon wrote a whole book bemoaning how meaningless life is, and I actually wondered if maybe he wasn’t suffering from a back ache at the time. Job, well, Job lamented his circumstance and then had three wonderful friends who blamed him for his predicament. Oh, and then there was his wife who told him to just curse God and die. Yowza.

All this to say, I know I am in good company.

I know God is big enough to take what I’m giving Him right now. I’m still praising Him in this storm, but, man, some days it is hard to sing of joy when I’m going on month six of almost daily pain and the curtailed life that goes along with it. And I’m talking PAIN here people. I can take a lot of it, but, I may have reached my limit. It's exhausting, really.

So, what do I do? Where do I go from here? It is the same old thing; I just keep getting up every day. When I get knocked down by all this, I have a good cry and just get back up. Again. Because as hard as this is, I don’t know what it looks like to stay down.

 

And I want it to stay that way.