The Faces of Blessed Boston

I can feel my heart beating out of my chest and I’m quite sure my silent giggle won’t remain inside me for long.  Oh, this must be the best life ever.  I am giddy as I feel the gentle sea-level sunshine on my face and walk quickly among hundreds down Grove Street in the small Hopkinton neighborhood.  We are all on our way to find our starting wave and corral.   This is the seventh year I’ve been privileged to run this historic race and every year this same walk to the start is one of the most memorable parts of the race.  It’s the faces of the spectators and the children and the police and the volunteers that transform the race from an event into an experience.

The spirit of the Boston Marathon is in these faces – their expressions, their smiles, their wide-eyed wonder.  These faces make me realize that this is so much less about a foot race and so much more about the human race.   And this year, the human race will take back the Boston Marathon from the malicious men who planted two bombs at the finish line killing three people, injuring hundreds, and forever changing the lives of millions.  They stole this race from the world.  But, this year, we all run the Boston Marathon.  This is our redemption race.   All of us.  Together.

As I squeeze myself into my crowded corral, I realize that there are only three minutes until the gun will go off and the 118^th Boston Marathon will be underway.  At this moment, I am lost in a sea of people, but oddly, I feel closely connected to them all. I am acutely aware of everything around me – the fragrance of cherry blossoms,  the tweeting of hundreds of watches, and the vibrant blue sky streaked with delicate wisps of white.  This is the first time I’ve waited at the starting line feeling completely at peace.  As I check my watch and double knot  my laces, I know that this race is not about me.  This is our recovery race – a tribute to all those who spent the last year suffering, mourning, rehabbing and rebuilding.  I saw many of them – at the Expo, drinking coffee at Starbucks, at the hotel, walking on Boylston Street.  They are not just a main character in a human interest story.  These are real people.  And now they have faces.

This will be a race of the heart.  And, with the crack of the gun my wave starts slowly moving forward until we cross the start line and the beep of hundreds of watches notify the world that “We’re off.”  I love the start as we head downhill to the sounds of screaming on-lookers who make us feel like we are running rock stars. There’s no better feeling than high-fiving rows of kids as I feel weightless  gliding downhill.  This year, the marathon feels more intimate.  The faces on the spectators are a combination of strength, faith, and a sense of renewal.  And, I really see them.

At mile 21, I realize I’ve been so deep in thought and contemplation that I’ve already run up and over  the infamous Heartbreak Hill.  I’m debating whether I should stop at the upcoming water station when I see two young men  who have each lost a leg and are running with prostheses.  The crowd is going wild for them.  Not just cheering, but screaming.  I see their faces and feel their presence as I respectfully pass by and acknowledge their courage with an unworthy wave.   These men are not just a headline story now.  They are real people.  I feel a lump rising in my throat as the movie of my mind transitions from their faces to the two nights earlier when I was alone in my hotel room.

It was the Saturday night before Easter Sunday and I had just placed a room service order.  I’m  flipping through the television channels when I  hear the knock on the door.  When I return to channel surfing with my dinner in hand, I stop.  I’m captivated by the show selection I’ve inadvertently made.  On the screen I see Jesus.  I don’t move.  I can’t eat.  I just watch.  I watch how his devotion and compassion and his unconditional love is portrayed by the actor.  I am drawn in by his expression, his voice, his peace. Within 30 minutes, I’ve been reacquainted with the story of Jesus and the betrayal.  But within one hour, the tears are streaming and I’m crying. For the first time in my life, I realize what it all means. “Oh, God, I understand,”  I say out loud to the empty room,  “Jesus was a person.  Jesus was a real person. I’m so sad for him.  Oh God!”

The story of Jesus is etched in my mind as I try to focus on getting my cramped legs and feet to the finish line.  I will never forget that moment.  Ever.  I cannot get the image of Jesus – bloody and frightened and dirty and ridiculed – out of my head. What I saw in front of me was a man.  A pure and innocent man who, without words, said, “I accept all of this.  I will carry all of your burdens.  I will be the one and only who will love you and take everything you can throw at me. I will be your blame.  I will be your shame. Let me take that from you.”   Now I see what it means so clearly when Pastor Tullian says, “Jesus meets our sin with his righteousness, our human propensity to mess things up with his dedication to clean things up, and our faithlessness with his faithfulness. He is big enough. He is wide enough. And, today, he is alive and keeping his promises.”  Jesus was a person.  And I love him.

As I cross the finish line, I walk a few paces and start to cry.  This happens after every marathon, but this time the emotions are deeper.  As I accept my finisher’s medal from quite possibly the sweetest woman on the planet, I am convinced that every day is an opportunity to see life differently.  It wasn’t until I landed at Boston Logan Airport and saw how many people were affected by the bombings that I really understood.  My experience alone in the Holiday Inn on Easter-eve showed me that we cannot really understand anything until we have compassion.  Until we see people as real people – we see their faces and suffer for them.  This entire experience changed me forever.  Now I truly understand, “It is finished.”