Look for the miracles

It has taken me a couple of days to process the events of Monday.  It wasn't until we were riding a bus yesterday to New York that my brain had time to really just think about things.  I survived a terrorist bombing.  My husband and our two kids who were with us survived a terrorist bombing.

Mark and his brother hopped on a school bus shuttling runners to Hopkinton at 6AM Monday morning.  The race doesn't start until 10AM, but it takes a while to shuttle 27,000 runners 26 miles to the starting line.  At about 7AM, the kids and I headed out to claim our viewing spot along Boylston.  I know from being at the marathon before that the best place to watch is on Boylston between Ring Rd and Exeter Street on the south side of the road in front of Lord and Taylor.  We spread out our chairs and began a long and chilly wait for the race to begin, knowing it would be five hours until we saw the first of the elite runners come through.  I was wearing 3 shirts, a jacket, a hat, 2 pairs of gloves, a scarf and I was freezing.  I could not stop shaking.

We watched the spectators start to fill in the street all along Boylston.  I also noticed something I had not seen at the race before.  Police were walking both sides of the street with bomb-sniffing dogs.  They passed by a couple of times, and I just figured this was part of some new precautions in our changing world.  I had no idea that at the starting line the same thing was happening.  Mark and his brother were seeing the same thing--police and dogs.  The announcement kept coming over the loud-speakers, "Don't be alarmed. There are dogs here doing a training exercise.  Don't touch the dogs unless you have permission from its owner."  They both thought it was odd, and it was definitely something that had not happened before.  They both filed it in their brains under "Whatever" because they had many more things to worry about that morning.

Mark had been battling an IT band injury since September which seemed to have resolved, but it actually flared back up in a very bad way about 3 weeks before the race.  Last fall, Stephen had a cuboid stress fracture and had been forced to take a few months off of training.  They both knew their bodies were a little fragile for the marathon that day, but they are Dorroughs, and you give whatever you are doing everything you've got if that is your last name.

My sister-in-law and 3 of her kids from Connecticut joined us at 8AM.  The waiting went much faster with a friend to talk to and cousins for the kids to hang out with.  We talked and laughed and just enjoyed the sights and sounds of the pre-race.  Before we knew it, the wheelchair racers started to come through the finish line.   By this time, the crowd is honestly 15 people deep on Boylston.  Every inch of sidewalk is covered with spectators packed as tightly as they can squeeze.

There are always police along the last 200 yards to the finish line, but usually they stand about every 50 feet or so.  Suddenly, from out of nowhere walked in at least 100 cops in their fluorescent yellow coats.  The back of their coats said, "Special Ops."  They stood facing the crowd about every 10 feet along that last stretch of the race.  And then another 100 cops came out of nowhere on black bicycles.  They separated into two columns and completely filled in other areas near the finish line.  This show of force, along with the dogs from earlier, started telling me that something was going on.  I shivered more intensely and couldn't stop.

The elite runners came through, first the women and then the men.  I have no idea who won.  I was too busy trying to control my trembling and also trying to take good photographs of the elite finishers.  After the elites had finished the race, the police presence completely disappeared.  First the bikes took of in their straight lines, and then the special ops guys marched off.  Eventually all of the police were gone and the regular-Joe runners started to come through the finish.

I knew that Mark would come in anywhere between 3:00 and 3:15.  He crossed the finish line at 3:15:56, and I could tell his body was in terrible shape.  I will post more of his story later, but he was cramping from his calfs all the way up to his back.  Mark was in the finisher's area getting some food and hydration and he called me and said he was going to make his way to me to watch for Stephen. We expected him to cross the finish line around 3:50.  I finally saw him run by and he finished in 4:01.  He was hurting as well, but he finished with a big smile on his face.  I called Mark and told him to go back to the family meeting area and wait for us because we had seen Stephen. In addition, the kids had to go to the bathroom so we were leaving our spot on Boylston so the kids could take care of business.

We found Mark sitting on a curb in the family meeting area, which is one block south of Boylston along Stuart St.  I sat down next to him, and within one minute we heard the first explosion.  We looked at each other and he said, "That sounds like a bomb!"  I am usually the one who jumps to the worst-case-scenario in my thinking, and Mark is always the one trying to look for the positive.  I knew he was right, but my brain was racing to think of something else that could have made that enormous BOOM.  I heard the second BOOM, and at that moment I knew it was a bombing.  I thought back to September 11th and watching the first tower burning and thinking it had been a terrible accident.  When the second tower was hit, that is when I knew it was an attack and no accident.  It was the same emotion at the marathon.  The second explosion told me that this was very, very bad.  The street full of happy runners and their families was suddenly silent as we all tried to process what we had just heard.  Everyone's faces changed from joy to worry.  Did we really just hear two bombs go off?

At this moment, Mark's brother found us.  We took some pictures and then we started to hear sirens.  And more sirens.  And more sirens.  At that moment we knew for sure that it was a bombing attack.  Stephen told us that he had seen the two explosions behind when he was in the finisher's area.  They rushed him out before he could get any water or food, but there was still no panic in the family meeting area.  We talked to a runner who said he had finished the race just before the bomb went off, but they had rushed him out without giving him a medal.  Another runner heard this, handed the guy his own medal and walked away.

We decided to walk to our hotel and watch the action from there, as we had a perfect view of the finish area and Boylston Street.  On our way there, my phone started going crazy.  I tried to call my parents, but we could not call out.  I sent my parents a text saying, "We are OK."  I quickly posted on facebook that there had been an explosion but that we were fine.  My phone kept dinging with people texting and making sure we were OK, and the sirens kept coming.  My head was spinning.  But I had finally stopped shivering.

Mark got a text from our favorite secret service agent telling us to get to our hotel and hunker down as there were likely more bombs.  All 9 of us crammed into our room on the 22nd floor at the Marriott to watch and wait. The line of ambulances waiting to get to the medical tent was unreal.  At least 100 ambulances were lined up along Huntington trying to get to the tent at Copley Square.  We had an aerial view of the police, FBI, army, secret service, and bomb squads spreading out all over the area. It was fascinating and horrible.

One siren in a big city echoes.  Imagine every siren in the city at once rushing to the same area.  It was deafening.  I will never forget the sound of the blasts.  I will never forget the sound of the sirens.  I will never forget the sound of my phone dinging.  I didn't realize until we were watching video footage of the bombings on the news that there was a sound I had missed.  I am forever grateful that we were not on the street to hear the screaming.

And then I saw videos of just after the bombs.  I cried seeing images of cops and volunteers charging into the blast to help.  They didn't know if there would be more explosions.  They only knew that their help was needed.  I thought of the quote from Mr. Rogers, which I posted at the beginning of this post.  You will always find people helping.

Next, we saw a map of where the explosions had occurred.  I had been sitting directly between the bombs the entire day.  For almost seven hours, I had been sitting with my kids exactly between the blasts.  My kids had been inside the mall across from the second blast at least 5 times that morning to get warm or use the restroom.

If Mark had been walking to meet us, he would have been walking through the area of the first blast when it went off. If he had run as fast as he wanted to that morning, he would have been with us and we would have stayed right in our seats on Boylston.  If the kids had not had to use the bathroom, we all would have been sitting there between the bombs, and we would have seen and heard all of the horror.  If Stephen had been a few minutes slower, he would have been right there in the explosion. I can't even list the many small miracles that happened that day to keep us out of danger.  We were guided in every step that day, and when we were all back at the hotel together, we offered prayers of gratitude.  We have stopped saying "If."  All we can do now is say, "Thank you."

In the week leading up to our trip, Mark had some very powerful experiences where he felt profoundly of God's love for him and that God would be with him and that he would be protected on race day.  Mark had hoped that perhaps these experiences were foretelling of great success and strength during the race and possibly of his joining the elusive sub-3-hour marathon club.  We now know that God was telling him something much more important.  God loves him and was with him that day, but in a much better way than he had imagined.  The victory of his race was overpowered by the emotions of having our family all together and safe after the tragedy that day.

Through the darkness of that day, there was much to be thankful for. The bombings brought our nation together, and reminded everyone of what is really important in life.  Life, after all, is a marathon. As Paul said  in Timothy 2:7, "I have fought a good fight.  I have finished my course.  I have kept the faith."  No matter what.

At dinner Monday night, Joel started tearing up.  It was sinking in.  Who would do this?  Why would someone attack innocent people?  How can someone be so evil?

A friend posted this reminder yesterday of why bad things are allowed to happen.  This has always been a favorite Old Testament story of mine, but I had not seen its true meaning until yesterday.
Rabbi Harold Kushner  discussed the Newtown CT tragedy. He was asked "Why did God let this happen?" He answered by citing the passage from I Kings 19 (where an angel tells Elijah to go up to the mountain): "Go forth, and stand upon the mount before the Lord. And, behold, the Lord passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and brake in pieces the rocks before the Lord; but the Lord was not in the wind: and after the wind an earthquake; but the Lord was not in the earthquake: And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice." Rabbi Kushner then said that god was not in the tragedy, but rather god is in what happens after the tragedy - those who ran toward the scene to help, the outpouring of love and support, and the building of community. A beautiful interpretation. God was not in the bombs, but god will be in what comes now.