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Add My StoryAuthor: Gracey Watson
“Father and Daughter”
With the Boston Marathon approaching in a couple of weeks, I thought I’d share my own little story about how last year’s tragic events affected our family. The marathon bombings came close to home for us in that my husband was running in it as a representative for a local homeless shelter. Also, our daughter (ten years old at the time) had joined him for the final three miles as (kind of, but not really) a kid “bandit,” intending to cross the finish line together with him. You can read her personal memoir describing her own experience below.
The next day, much of Greater Boston was under lockdown as the authorities pursued the remaining suspect, who was eventually isolated and captured in the town of Watertown, where my husband happened to be the high school principal at the time. As we checked the news obsessively throughout the day, Steve started planning out in his mind how he was going to help his students process and work through such a traumatic event having transpired quite literally in their backyards, many of whom had had their homes searched by police SWAT teams.
Prior to the Boston Marathon, Steve had been nursing an achilles tendonitis injury for several months, but chose to run the marathon anyway, especially given his commitment to the Pine Street Inn. Ironically, if he had been in full health for the race, his usual running time would have brought him to the finish line around when the bombs were detonated. So, despite the setback of having to participate with an injury, his protracted journey ultimately protected him, as well as our daughter, from imminent danger.
The Day of the Race
After sending my daughter off with Steve at mile 23, I hopped on the subway to pick them up at the finish line with warm clothes in hand. As the train approached the St. Mary’s stop, right before the tunnel entrance to Kenmore, I looked out the window and saw an intimidating group of national guardsmen approaching the train. They had stern expressions on their faces and declared, “there was an accident,” so the subway was shutdown indefinitely. As the other passengers exited the train and slowly dispersed, I asked the soldier when service might start running again, but he didn’t know. Just then, I received a New York Times email alert declaring that two bombs had been detonated at the finish line. Utter terror began to overtake me as I confronted the man in uniform with this information, surmising my husband and daughter could have been there at the time. He didn’t deny the report, but wouldn’t reveal anything else. So, I finally asked if I could start walking toward the finish line to find them, but he insisted everything was blocked off and I probably wouldn’t be able to get very far.
I wandered around in a befuddled daze for a few minutes and pressed into a crowd hovering around a radio on the sidewalk. The announcer reported that victims had died in the blast, and that some were children. What if Steve and our daughter were among those killed? In that moment, all I could think of was walking toward the finish line to find them, while simultaneously visualizing our two little boys waiting at home with their grandparents. What if other bombs had been planted along the way? What if I was the only parent left for our sons? If so, was it responsible of me to walk toward the danger? Yet, I was desperate to know whether or not my husband and daughter were safe. I confronted another soldier, and he insisted I turn around and walk home. Following orders, I wandered home on side roads, avoiding the main street, weeping helplessly while calling my mom and in-laws on my cell phone to no avail. The networks were down.
About halfway home, I received a text message from an unrecognized phone number. Apparently, my husband had asked a random stranger to let him borrow her phone. “It’s Steve. We’re okay. Walking home.”
THANK GOD!!!!!!! A flood of relief washed over me.
I finally got home, walked into my yard and just sat for a moment in silent shock, only to be found by my mother-in-law. We embraced tightly, recounted the sequence of events and wept together for a long time.
Eventually, Steve called me from a different person’s phone, and I picked them up a half mile away. What a glorious sight to find my limping husband and courageous daughter by the side of the road, both sweaty and shivering. We were all so grateful to be reunited.
My family was one of the fortunate ones. I know this full well.
My husband’s running the Boston Marathon again in a couple of weeks, even though his achilles isn’t fully recovered yet. Of course, the kids will hold their customary lemonade stand until it’s time to walk down to the sidelines. We’ll cheer the runners on and look out for Steve, as we did last year.
I pray for continued healing and restoration for the victims of the bombings, as well as their loved ones. I pray for protection over this upcoming race.
I also hope for the following promise to come to pass in our complicated, conflict-riddled world:
Isaiah 2:4: “He (God) will judge between the nations and will settle disputes for many peoples. They will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore.”
Almost There by Julianna (age 11)
“Mom,” I whispered. “I don’t think I’ll be able to eat all this.” I stared down at my food, feeling as if I was about to puke. My dad was running the Boston Marathon right now with achilles tendonitis, an injury in his ankle, and I was really worried for him. He was a great runner, and this was his second marathon, but his foot was really hurting him.
My mom’s phone buzzed with a text update about my dad. “Well, he’s in Ashland now. I hope he’ll be okay.”
I could just imagine my dad up there, straining his poor hurt ankle. “You think? I wish he hadn’t volunteered for the Pine Street Inn.” The Pine Street Inn was a homeless shelter my dad’s friend helped out with. He had asked my dad to run with him to support the shelter, and of course the answer was yes.
“Yeah, well it’s too late now.” my grandmother, Neena commented.
“I don’t think I should eat much if I’m going to run the last three miles of the race.” I plonked my burrito back on its plate.
“Well, you’ve gotta eat something.” Neena caringly looked into my eyes, stroking my long brown hair. “Just one or two bites might make you feel better.”
I took a few bites, then slouched down in my seat, not feeling any better. “Maybe I shouldn’t run after all.” I definitely was able to run three miles, but this was the Boston Marathon.
“You’re not going to run?” one of my younger brothers, John asked before my other brother, Zeke tossed a chunk of greasy chicken in his lemonade. “Mom! Look what Zeke did!”
“But John put his rice and beans on my lap!”
“Boys, we’re in a public place! Be respectful, or you’ll both have to give me a dollar.” my mom warned, handing Zeke a napkin to wipe off his shorts.
Meanwhile, Neena patted my arm. “You’ll regret it if you don’t go.”
I knew I would regret it, but I was still so nervous.
We left the restaurant and walked down the street. Zeke was still whining about his damp shorts. “I hate John!”
“Mom, Zeke said he hates me!”
“Uh oh, Zeke, do you have to give me a quarter?”
“I don’t care! I hate John and I mean it!” Zeke’s face was starting to turn beet red.
John mischievously giggled, finding his brother’s rage amusing. I just stared across the train tracks at the hundreds of marathon runners, wondering when my dad would be joining them.
We headed back up Beacon Street to Washington Square; then to Star Market, where we would be meeting my dad. Right in front of us were the runners, dashing down the gatorade- coated street.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” I nervously informed Neena, sprinting to the entrance of Star Market, my heart racing. My stomach felt hard as a rock, weighing me down. I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous now, my dad was fine and would be here soon. I came back to where my family and friends were standing, then ran back to the bathroom. This happened four more times before Neena peered at me. “You just went. You don’t have to go again.”
I anxiously stood by my mom, hugging my shivering legs and waiting for my dad to arrive. Then, about five minutes later, a light blue blur sped down the street. Instantly I knew it had to be him. He looked up, as if he was scouring the large crowd of spectators on the sidewalk, searching for us. My heart stopped. He was here. Finally. A rush of relief and happiness rushed all throughout myself like a calm, gentle waterfall pouring down on me. But even though I had that great feeling swelling inside of me, the big, heavy rock in my stomach still hadn’t left yet.
“Steve!” my mom called. “Steve!”
He was walking over to us, smiling. I could see his slight limp, but that didn’t stop him. My dad was a brave, kind, amazing father and I loved him. He rushed over with arms wide open, embracing all of us. My friend Helen from church and her dad, Cliff, who had been standing next to us, raced over to him.
“Steve my man!” Cliff shouted, laughter in his eyes. “Leave Robby all by himself?”
“Yeah,” my dad panted, bending over to stretch his sore body. “In around West Newton he couldn’t catch up, but he’s coming.”
The two dads shared a laugh. I smiled slightly even though I had no idea what they found so amusing. Then, after talking to my mom for a second, he turned to me. “Ready to go?”
I tied my sneakers as tight as they would go without cutting off my circulation, then nodded nervously; and we took off. I started to go a little fast, but my dad stopped me.
“With my achilles, I can’t run as fast as usual.” Sadly, I slowed down my pace a little.
Running in the Boston Marathon was astounding. Sure, I had walked down these streets many times before, but it felt as if right now I was running down a totally different road I had never been on before. The course seemed to be filled with some kind of wonderful iridescent light, glowing all around the spectators faces.
They were all cheering. Cheering for the runners. Cheering for my dad. Even cheering for me, it seemed. Wow, was all I could think. This was amazing. This was awesome. This was too breathtaking for words. I felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off of my back. Everyone all around me was smiling warmly and cheering, waving posters and banners with encouraging phrases. I was overjoyed as we continued to run down the streets I had seen so many times. I was pretty sure this was going to be the best day of my life.
We kept running. My dad and some others lifted their arms to signal the spectators to keep cheering, as if to say, “Bring it on! I love this!”
My dad and I talked a little on the way, mainly about our days. “The whole time I was running, I just kept thinking, when I get to mile twenty three I can run with my Julianna, and that’s what kept me motivated.” he admitted.
My heart was full. We were almost there. The fact that this was such a wonderful community had never crossed my mind before, but now my eyes were opened to how all these people had got up early and devoted their time to come and cheer for runners, to make this the best day of so many people’s lives.
Then, suddenly all the runners stopped. In front of us all I could see was the large mass of commotion. Some spectators we dashing wildly away from the direction of the finish line. Hundreds of ambulances, it seemed, were speeding back and forth all around us, the alarms and sirens sounding. Panic, it seemed, was flying all around us and spreading like a highly contagious disease. As if on cue, all the marathon runners pulled out their phones and started dialing hastily. I turned to my dad. “What’s going on?”
He just turned to a woman with long blonde hair in front of us.
“Excuse me, do you know what’s going on?”
She looked up from her phone. “Apparently there was some explosion at the finish line and they won’t let us go on.”
I turned to her. “But, are you sure?”
She nodded and went back to being frustrated with her screen. I looked to my dad. “This is some joke, right?”
“I’m not sure. I hope it is.” then back to the woman. “Would you mind if we use your phone?”
“It’s not working. It must be because everyone’s trying to call people at the same time.” She handed her device to my dad anyway, seeing if maybe it would work for him. Thankfully, he was able to send a text to my mom, informing her of what had happened. Then the woman left.
A huge wave of disappointment washed over me. “But, this can’t be happening! I mean-”
My dad grasped my hand. “Let’s go.”
I trembled. We were almost at the finish line. Almost. Maybe if we stayed longer and waited, the police would let us keep running. My dad turned to one of the nearby cops. “Excuse me, officer, but do you know what we should do?”
He let out a long sigh. “I would just go home.”
“So basically the marathon is cancelled?”
“Yeah, we’re trying to work on it, but yes, it is.”
My eyes welled up with tears. All that happiness, all that bliss was gone now.
“Sorry, Jujubean.” My dad put his arm around my shoulder. He didn’t smell that lovely, but I didn’t mind. I took one last glance at the commotion before me, then walked away with my dad.
As we walked back, all I felt was disappointment. We informed other runners of what had happened, then kept walking. Some people were lying on the ground crying, upset they would never be able to finish. I could now feel the bitter cold of the day, see the cloudy gray sky up above. Some day. Since I was only wearing a T-shirt and shorts, the effect of the cold was unbearable. The people at the emergency stands had no more blankets, there were only four thousand blankets at each stand. The walk home was only two miles, but it seemed more like billions of miles in the icy frost. My dad leaned on me for some of the time, using me as a crutch after running twenty five hilly miles. I felt like I was trapped in an ice cube.
“Well, I just hope that whoever needs to be brought to justice is brought to justice,” my dad began, leaning on my arm. “And whoever that has been hurt gets healed.”
Source: graceywatsonblog
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