speaking words of affirmation [to ourselves too...]

There are some days when marriage is easy, parenting is sweet and filled with joy, friendships are simple and close, and we feel comfortable in our own skin with no extra work.  Those are beautiful, sweet, and glorious treasures - moments in the sun where we yawn and stretch and bask in the glow.

There are also days, moments, and weeks that are not so beautiful, sweet, and glorious.  They are still good - but they're harder.  They are the moments when you feel alone, tired, unheard, not seen or understood.  Shriveled, shrunken, and huddled in a small, heart-frozen ball.  Days when the words you need to hear are not said. When you feel alone, unseen, not understood. When the decisions you have to make are hard.  When the friends you hold most dear are far away or distant for other reasons.

And that's life - both the basking and the shrinking.  The warm glow and the cold huddle.  The beautiful and the hard.  One is not to be feared over the other  - as the winter snows are necessary for the spring bulbs to sprout, so too our cold seasons can be part of our fertilization and growth - an invitation to hope, to long for spring, community and warmth.  Sometimes they're not.  Sometimes they're merely to be endured, wept over, and not to be oversimplified.   But they're both part of life, whether we see the explanation immediately or not.

For me, these past few weeks have been a season in which I have struggled to be known.  By no fault of others, haven't heard the words that I needed to hear, and have felt alone, unseen, and not understood.   Life is in a lot of transition for me, with returning to work, with becoming a mom, with the transitions of marriage of two to family of three, to calling and life and work and identity, and on and on.  And I understand that - and want to give grace for that - it's not a bad place, it's just a place of transition.    But sometimes transition can be lonely.

But I had the realization this morning, that I know the words that I need to hear.  And maybe this is a time in which I need to be able to say them to myself.  To know them to be true.  To say them out loud, to hear them - rather than sitting silently waiting for them to be said.  So here goes, not out of narcissism but because sometimes we just need to speak those words of truth and freedom to ourselves as well...

Kristen,  you're not alone.
You are loved.
You are delighted in.
You are a beloved Daughter. Friend. Wife. Mother.  Sister.
You are beautiful.
I'm proud of you.  You're doing your best, and I see that.

In the relationships and places that are hard, the ones that make you feel shriveled and like the smallest, meanest version of yourself, give yourself grace to be human, even as you must continue to call yourself to courage to press in.  Not to give up.  Not to take the easy way out.  But with the same grace for yourself that you give to others.  There is a small, mean, shriveled part of you - yes - and sometimes you act like her.  But there is also the true you, who longs for wholeness, reconciliation and restoration. Sometimes it's easier to see the small side.  But both are there.

You are not perfect.  Nor are you required to be.  It's okay for you to fail.  Have hope, daughter, and not shame.  You are more than the sum of your failures and successes.

Please for the love of all that is good, please do something adventurous, playful and mildly foolish.  You know the ways that gives life to your soul.  Please sing again.  Please dance.  Please write more often.  And draw pictures that aren't very good but are in bright colors and come from your heart.  This is not just a cliche list of "I hope you dance"-esque idioms.  You know the ways that your heart breathes.  For the love, woman, please breathe.  It's okay to acknowledge your own needs, wants, desires.  Let people care for you.

You're a good mom.  Not because you do everything perfectly, but because you love your child with a freakishly joyful, strong, and deep love.  And while you make mistakes, you repent, and you do your best, with love.  Give yourself a break.  It's okay to be tired, overwhelmed, uncertain.  It's okay to ask for advice, help - and it's okay to not take it all.  

You're a good wife.  And you are loved.  Your husband tells you that - you need to hear him.  Believe him.  You're not perfect, but you're enough.  And you are loved and enjoyed.  Your husband is great, and actually wants to know what you need.  So tell him already, without shame.

It's okay that you don't have this whole life/motherhood/wife-hood/family member/calling/life/direction thing figured out.  Remember that nice, neat, five-year plan you had in high school?  Yeah, that definitely happened and worked out well.  What you have is so much better, and wilder, and more beautiful that that 2-D well orchestrated plan.  Just consider this off-roading.  You're figuring it out, and you will continue to be figuring it out for the rest of your life.  That's okay.

Grace.  Abundant and free.  May I hear it this morning, like the soft rain falling outside, breaking the oppressive heat.  And if it's grace to you as well, may it likewise water your soul.  Or give you room to write your own.

Four Months Strong

Happy 4 months (a few days late), my big son! You are growing into such a big strong boy!

Your Profile

This has been a busy month for you and you are growing by leaps and bounds.  At your four month doctors appointment, you weighed in at almost 16 pounds - in the last two months since your last doctors appointment, your head has grown 3 centimeters and you are 3 inches longer, as well as almost 4 pounds heavier!  The doctor says you are "right on the money" for height, size, and weight.  You have precious little chub rolls on your arms and legs, and a great double chin.

Things you Learned

This month, you learned how to roll over from your tummy to your back, you learned how to grab toys (and faces and pretty much anything else), you are drooling up a storm and "pre-teething"and you just started sleeping through the night (!!).  You also are starting to notice people more - mostly mommy and daddy - but also other babies and other people, and books and toys.  You also have learned how to laugh - and mommy and daddy do everything possible to make you giggle because it.is.SO.cute.  And you've just started giving great hugs - which is a lot of fun!

Your Firsts

You took your first airplane ride this month - flying down to Virginia to see extended family!  You met (or re-met) all of your grandparents, half of your great-grandparents, your aunts, uncles and cousin - as well as your great aunts and uncles, all of mommy's cousins, and one second cousin-to-be  - and many, many of daddy and mommy's friends. You were a champ on the flight, sleeping the entire time.  You also visited both daddy and mommy's alma maters - Old Dominion University and University of Richmond - and didn't seem too impressed on first look.  You started going to the nursery at church for the first time this month and you also made the big move across the apartment, into your own room (harder for mommy than it was for you!).  Mommy also returned to work two days a week, and so you started to get to hang out with daddy full-time twice a week (a blessing that he can work from home during the summer months and hang out with you!)

Things you Like

You still LOVE your johnny-jump-up (and anything that allows you to move around).  You like trying to stand up by holding on to our fingers.  You LOVE bath-time, and the silly faces that daddy makes at you, and how he wraps you up in your towel like a giant burrito - you really, really like your daddy.  You thoroughly enjoy going for walks outside in the stroller, and you still like the Bjorn, even though you're getting a little heavy for it.  You're still a snuggle-bug, especially when you're tired. And you continue to have a love-hate relationship with Green Squishy.

We love you so much, little man!  We cannot wait to see you continue to grow bigger, older and more and more into your own little person!

<3 mommy and daddy

Snippets and Fragments

... an unorganized collection of thoughts from an average Monday.

.i.

Riding the blue line today, with S and Jon, there was a middle-aged woman in our car, keeled over in her seat.  Her cup of water had spilled all over the floor, and her t-pass, credit card and phone dangled loosely from her fingers.  She was perched precariously on the edge of her seat, and with each jostle of the train, slid further and further head-forwards toward the floor.  A few times she slid down to the floor.  And then regained her seat.  And slid again, face inches away from the floor.

Unresponsive to my inquires if she was okay or needed help, I moved over next to her and braced her up in her seat, one hand physically holding her up in her slumped position, as half the car fixated on her situation.  A middle-aged businessman joined me, holding her up.  Another traveller called for assistance from the T police, his language not harsh, but not humanizing, talking about, rather than to. At which she suddenly became far more alert and assertive that she was fine, even as she continued to slide, face-first from her seat.  And I think, it's a fine line between giving assistance, helping, and putting others below us, us superior, together, fine, them needy.

.ii.

On our way to lunch, we stopped in Copley Square to visit the memorial there.  It's the first time that I've been down on Boylston Street since the marathon, and it was both completely normal and eerily strange.  I haven't cried since that Monday, but today I wanted to.  Lining the square, people have left their patriotism, their Boston pride, and their possessions - their words and solidarity - small ways of saying, "I'm with you" and "you're not alone."  A child's Spongebob Squarepants coloring book, a Yankees jersey, running shoes, volunteers jackets, scarves from competing premier league clubs, so many letters, crosses and prayers - affiliations aside, all that mattered was "we're here together and I will give of what I have, who I am."  A sign of solidarity and unity.  Odd, beautiful, gaudy and lovely, touristy and Boston-y.  Everyone taking pictures, writing, leaving, leaving behind, remaining.  The photo taking, the whole touristy part, made me angry - made me warm inside - made me sad - made me remember - made me cry - made me feel solidarity - made me thought-filled.  I don't know.  All I know is that I feel.  I remember.  I am not alone. /still thought-filled.

.iii.

It's very hard to enjoy a quality adult conversation - or for that matter, eat spare-ribs - with a 3 month old in tow.  But I wouldn't trade it for anything, even as I wipe BBQ sauce, beans, and spit-up from every article of clothing I wore today, all of which vaguely smell like baby-pee.  Never before have I known such joy in the smallest things, the most simple things, or the most exhausted moments.  I just might occasionally splurge on a babysitter when it comes time to eat in restaurants.

.iv.

There is a gift - a real gift - that fathers give to their children.  The gift of courage, of boldness, and of bravery.  A father teaches his son or daughter, "it's okay, you don't have to be afraid, you're safe."  A mother teaches this too - but in a different way (although, be it acknowledged, we are not bound to fall into these generalities).  A father's blessing is one of courage - freedom to do, and not be afraid - whereas a mother blesses her children to be - freedom to be who they are, and know that it is delightful.

My husband is a wonderful father - and I've always know that he was and would be.  Tonight S, in his bobble-headed wiggling, bobbled rapidly and banged his nose against Jon's collarbone, hard - screaming a scream which can only be identified as pain, fear, and gut-wrenchingly shrill.  It hurt.  He's okay, but it hurt.  And as Jon held him and rocked him, comforting him, yes - his words were those of empowering, emboldening... courage.  You are so strong son, and so brave.  I love you.  You'll be okay, I'm here.  You are so strong and so brave.  It is a gift to have a father who can speak these words, live these words, teach these ways.  S doesn't know it yet, but I hope and pray he will see that gift as a gift. A freedom to soar, to run, to fly - without fear.

Fathers are important in these ways - not for demonstrating strength in any particular one way, but because in their good strength, however it is manifest, they demonstrate and give courage, they empower bravery.  In bad strength,  they often rob their children of it.  But is that really strength at all?

.v.

There is no five.

three months and getting so big!

Happy 3 months to S! :)

It blows my mind to think that you are already three months old - seems like just yesterday that you were born.  But you are growing like a little weed, and really developing into your own person these days. Your daddy and I are really enjoying seeing your personality start to come out.

This month, we decided to weigh you in ourselves, one night after bath-time.  You weighed in at a whopping almost 14 pounds - and then promptly peed all over mommy, the floor, the wall, the scale, and daddy.

We can safely attest to the fact that your kidneys and bladder seem to be in perfect working order.  In fact, that has been a recurring trend for most of the month - it's hard to keep you in diapers that are dry - and we have to plan on at least 2 wardrobe changes every day, just to keep up with all the diaper overloads!  We're hoping that stage passes soon...

You also have the most adorable little rolls on your legs and arms - which are super cute on a baby!

This has been a busy month for you,  full of lots of firsts!

 Your met your friend Danny again.  You guys had met earlier when he was first born, but this was the first time we got a picture of the two of you together - and your mommies!  Ms. Jenny and I were pregnant with you at the same time, and it was fun to finally get the boys together!

You also had your first babysitters this month - Mommy and Daddy got to go on our first "date" alone since you were born.  Ms. Jenny and Mr. Mac and your friend Danny came over to stay with you, which was a big treat for us!  We went to check out Night Shift Brewery and Idle Hands Brewery - and really liked Idle Hands, and the time alone together.  You apparently slept for 90% of the time, and were very happy otherwise.  We had a great time, and really appreciated them coming to play with you!

 You have started to enjoy playing with your hands, toys, and basically anything that you can chew/gum on.  We pulled out the Johnny Jump Up that your friend Riley loaned us, and you seem to LOVE it because it is the best combination of something that you can chew on AND a place where you can wiggle around freely!  You spend a lot of time walking in circles in it, these days.

You went out to a BBQ restaurant for the first time -  your Daddy really really likes BBQ, and we've searched high and low to find good BBQ places here in the north - this is one of our favorites.  You did great in the booster seat at the restaurant, until you freaked yourself out, and needed to be held the rest of lunch.  Otherwise, you did a great job -  although we like to think that you were slightly miffed that, due to your liquid diet, you didn't get to try the meats!

You also went to your first baseball game at Fenway Park (and got a nifty pin to prove it!).  You did a great job, only freaking out once when you were hot and tired.  Even when the stadium got really loud, you just watched, enraptured.  You especially liked it when they sang "Sweet Caroline" - you grinned and thought the whole stadium was singing to you.

A snapshot of you this month:

• You are chortling and semi-laughing these days.  You especially like to smile at daddy and squeal when he makes faces at you!  Daddy has the ability to make you smile unlike anyone else!

• You discovered your voice this month, and have started really "talking" to yourself and to us when you're happy, or starting to get sleepy.

• Along with discovering your voice this month, you've also cried because you were scared and cried because you were angry for the first times this month.  While you don't cry all that much, you do make your thoughts known far more these days.

• You're quieter and shyer these days around people other than mommy and daddy - not scared, or anxious yet, and you still let everyone hold you - but definitely more serious than otherwise.

• You also discovered your hands and toys this month - and are starting to enjoy swatting and things, grabbing things, and "playing" more.  Your coordination still isn't great, but you're starting to understand that you can make things move - and enjoying touching different textures.  Your favorite texture is your hair.  You hold on to it and play with it now when you're tired.

• You're still sleeping well these days - down to just one feeding in the nights, most nights - and sleeping from 8pm until 6:30 or 7 almost every day, with that one 2-3-4am feeding.   Your longest sleep stretch to-date is 9.5 hours.  You slept all the way through the night twice this month - from 10:30 until 6, and from 8 until 5:30 - but haven't repeated it with any regularity!

• Things you love:  your Johnny-Jump-Up, bath time, eating, getting your diaper changed (and in general, any excuse to ditch your clothing), smiling with Daddy, being outside and taking long walks, and chewing on your hands.

We love you so much, little man!  And we are loving watching you grow into your own person, month by month! :)

Letters to My Son: Boston Marathon

Dear S -

As I write this letter, you are sleeping soundly in your pack-n-play in the next room over, presumably drifting in between dreams of toys and warm milk and giggly bath times with Daddy.  Your world is beautifully small and safe - guarded by me and your Daddy, who love you dearly - and limited, for the most part, to things which might be strange and new, but are for the most part, safe.

And a part of me wishes that I could keep your world that small and safe forever.  That I could forever stand guard over your crib, your sleep, your giggles, your days - protecting you from all the things in this world that are broken, and scary, and unsafe.  And for now, while you are small and wee, completely dependent on your Daddy and me, and oh so innocent, I will do that.  And that is right and good - my role, my privilege as your Mommy.

But, as you grow from a wee boy into a bigger boy, and start to ask the questions "why" and "how" and "what,"  I do you no service, if I deny the ways that this world is broken.  If I don't teach you, as a bigger boy, how to process brokenness, how to fight for goodness and restoration, and the need to long for wholeness.  I don't want you to fear the brokenness, son - it's there, it's real, it's part of our world.  But there is also hope.  And the promise of restoration. And places for you and me, to live and act in that hope.  And as your mommy, that is my job, as you grow into a bigger boy - to teach you about the broken parts, yes, but to teach you about hope, and life, and restoration and action in the midst of those places.  And so, while you won't read this for years to come, we start today.

This week has been a week where I am oh so keenly aware of the brokenness in this world - the hatred, the hurt, and the evil that can be perpetuated by humans.  And yet, as I process these marathon bombings, the one question that I have never asked is why these men wanted to cause such hurt and pain.  I don't feel led to ask it.  I know the power that hate can carry - I know the ways in which hurt or cause or hatred can grow into evil action.  I know it in myself.  I know it in others.  I know it in the world.  And while you are wee and small and safe and protected now, it won't be too many years before you too will see the ways in which people can hurt, hate, and injure with their words and actions - me not excluded.  And so "why" is not my question.  The specifics I don't know - why this day, why this way, why these people, why my city?  But those don't feel important.

What I do want to know is...

Who had the opportunity to demonstrate love, welcome, and kindness to these men - in the years that preceded this - and how might that have made a difference?  How can you and I and we love, welcome, and show kindness to those in our midst?  How might kindness, goodness, and welcome have made a difference?  They might not have, but in our family, let's take the risk, live in hope, and try to love radically and see what happens.

In this story, a younger brother seems to have been influenced by an older brother's passion, cause and influence.  I wonder why.  I wonder what led him to throw away all the good, promising, hopeful opportunities that he had, and seemingly follow his brother, to a path of destruction.  I wonder if the hatred was his too.  I wonder what he thought and wanted. I wonder and I don't, at the same time.

You, S, will hopefully have the opportunity to be an older brother.  And I guarantee you, your younger siblings will look up to you, watch you, and probably imitate you.  Simply by means of being older, whether making mud pies or playing soccer or dealing with bullies or the way you talk, you will get the chance to be a leader.  And in the same way that your Daddy and I have responsibility to model well for you, the ways that we hope you will walk - and do so in a way that is good not merely our way - you too will have the opportunity to model, to lead.  There's grace in that - we're all learning, figuring this out, growing.  And ultimately, you can't be responsible for the choices that your siblings make.  But son, my hope is that if and when your siblings follow you, it will be into things which bless rather than curse, which heal rather than hurt, which stand up to evil, rather than aid it or simply give it room to grow.  This is what your Daddy and I hope to model for you, teach you, and live into.

And lastly, I wonder what do we do now?  When we see the ways that people hurt other people.  When we hurt people.  When we are hurt.  When we feel fear.  When we see hatred.  When we feel hatred.  How will we, will I, will you, respond?  How can we respond with hope, and life, and restoration, and action?

Son, I guarantee you, that you feel fear at some point in time.  That you will, even though my soft mommy heart wishes I could prevent it, be hurt.  That you will see others be hurt.  That you will feel anger, maybe even hate.  That's human.  Normal.  Broken, yes.  But not abnormal.  But what you do, how you respond, will be what makes the difference.  It is far easier to grow fearful, bitter, angry, self-defensive - to hate, to withdraw, or to lash out - than it is to act in hope and love.  While harder, it is far better to seek understanding, to press in, to seek justice, to mourn, to seek healing, to forgive, to say I'm sorry.  It is far easier to turn a blind eye to the hurt of others, to let the bullies continue to bully, and pacify ourselves with the fact that at least we're not contributing, than it is to stand up, and say "it's not okay."  But S, our prayer for you - that I pray every night - is that you would not be the easier man.  That you would be a man of strength, of courage, of humility, and of kindness.  That you would act in hope, and love.  That you would stand up for the bullied, the small, and the hurt.  It is harder, yes - there is no doubt.  And there will be times when you will take the easier way - and we'll love you then nonetheless, and strive to give you grace then, even while challenging you to turn back to hope and love. But S, no matter how hard, it matters, how we respond.

S, you and I and we will face fear, hurt, and hate.  In our world, we cannot avoid it.  But we always have a choice in how we respond.  And we hope and pray, that you and I and we will respond with hope, and life, and restoration, and action.

I love you so much, sweet baby boy, as you sleep in peaceful innocence, growing, even as I write this.  Your Mommy and Daddy are so proud of you and the wee boy that you already are becoming - and even as I write this, we pray for the man that you will become.

Love,

Mommy

why it's important to talk about fear

Processing, part II.

So friends, I have to admit, I've been dealing with quite a bit of writers remorse, after initially posting the previous reflection, "Monday to Tuesday."  It has been far more viewed than any other post I've written on this blog - shared numerous times, and read by people on four continents.  And that feels hard to me - hard because it's my story, my reflections, not a summary of the experience for marathon volunteers.  Hard because it was not complete, but very much in process.  Hard because it doesn't paint me in a good light - nor does it accurately reflect all the good that was going on around me, because that wasn't the story I was telling.  Hard because I felt exposed.  Hard because I didn't like the story about myself;  hard because I didn't respond in the way that I wanted to.  Hard because so much of it is about fear.

To be clear, I am not ashamed of the fact that I love my family and wanted to be with them, needed them to know that I was okay.  I feel no guilt in that, nor am I apologizing for a response that led me to run towards them.  Love is strong and good.  And even when love doesn't make your story "courageous" per se, there is no shame in love.  But the fear part of my response - the fear part of my story - has felt hard.  And admitting it has felt shameful.

Because isn't that how terrorism works?  The use of fear, violence, intimidation, to achieve ones' own ends?  Don't we, don't I, therefore, give victory to this cowardly attack, by acknowledging that I, that we, were in fact afraid?  That fear was present?

But as I've thought about it more, I've realized, it was right and appropriate for me to share that story - to share the parts that feel shameful too - not because it reflects who I want to be, but because it is true.  And in order to become the people that we want to be, we have to face who we are.

It does me, it does us, no good to tell stories spun in such a way that our inner desire becomes mysteriously transformed into our actual actions, regardless of the actual difference between the two.  While they make us sound better - and may authentically reflect what we desire to be - it does us no good to deceive ourselves into believing that we were who we weren't.  Because inevitably, when we lie about who we are, or were, we don't give ourselves the opportunity to grow, to change, to heal.  And when faced with a similar situation, we will respond in exactly the same way.  Fear hidden and denied, remains; it does not magically go away.

There are many people who are not afraid - for whom fear is not their primary reaction.  I pray that for my son every night - that he won't seek out danger, but that he also will not be afraid in the ways that I have been and am.  And I hope and pray that will be true for him.  And there are many people who can master fear quickly, and press into it, rather than run away.  But for the other 85% of the human population, who respond to danger with fear - to not acknowledge it, to pretend to be fearless, even when we were fearful, is a fearful response.  And actually cripples our ability to ever be courageous or fearless.  Fear that stays in the dark is like a rat in a dark room, walking in front of a spotlight.  The shadow is huge, even though the rat itself is small.  Fear that is hidden leads to true terror - even though it might not be externally evident until triggered.  Only by turning on the lights, acknowledging it, seeing it, is it revealed as it truly is.  Only by acknowledging ourselves, as we truly are, can we grow, heal, change.

That's different from a healthy "fake it til you make it."  Healthy fake-it-til-you-make-it is Corrie Ten Boom not feeling forgiveness, but extending her hand of forgiveness anyhow.  Struggling to love someone well, but still calling anyhow and saying "I love you." What do they say, whoever it was that actually said it? "Courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery over it" or "the willingness to act in spite of fear."  

It's also different from dwelling on fear, being paralyzed by fear, defining ourselves by our fears, or living in fear.  If that is the case, then terrorists, and terror, do win.   Eventually, we have to leave the fear behind - to choose hope, to live life, to choose love.  We have to acknowledge also, that fear is not the end of the story.  But I don't think we do that by denying the presence of fear, when it's actually there.  To name it, to admit it, to bring it to light, is to begin the process of disarming it.  

Franklin D. Roosevelt once said, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself" - a quote which is often used to call us into courage.  I would add to that - in being afraid to admit that we are fearful at times, in hiding behind the masks of who we wish we were, we strength the grip of fear.  Only by confronting, naming, and choosing to leave our fears behind - taking off the mask, turning on the lights, as it were not being afraid to admit that we were afraid -  do we actually lay claim to FDRs fear-free "leadership of frankness and vigor... which is essential to victory."

How does that pertain to me?  It starts by telling an honest story.  By acknowledging fear.  Yes, I was afraid.  Yes, I responded in fear.  No, that is not how I wish I had responded or desire to respond in the future.  Lord have mercy.  But also holding fast to the truth that fear is not the end of the story.  

Yes, the fruit of terrorism is fear.  And were to God that we were all fearless - that terrorism would be powerless against us, because it is powerless, where fear is absent.  Yet, the reality is that many of us are afraid, or respond with fear.  Yet, and that yet is important, in the courage to say, "I am afraid, but..." even if that "but" is just a repentance from our fearful actions, the roots of terror begins to be uprooted.  Where fear stays in the dark, it grows, leads to hatred, racism, bitterness, and even greater fear.  But in that "but"... courage grows.  Because even the act of the "but" is the first step to "willingness to act in spite of fear."

That's where I am, friends.  Telling my story.  In truth.  With hope.  Acknowledging fear.  Holding to hope in the "but..."  That, I truly believe, is the beginning of what courage is.

Monday to Tuesday

This will be long, and for that I apologize - this post is more for me than for you.  It's a space for me to begin to process.  To begin to put words to paper - to even figure out what I need to process of these events of the day - as I remember them.  Let me be clear - it is my story NOT the story of the day.  The story of the day is so much bigger, with different flavors, angles, colors and degrees than mine.  So here you go - this is just my story.

7:25 am - I left the house yesterday morning - Jon gave me a ride to the T, I told them I loved them, and headed downtown to volunteer for the marathon.  I was excited - this was year 5 volunteering, and so I knew it was going to be an exhausting, but exciting day.  I was nervous - this was the longest time (8+ hrs) that I had left S, since he was born - but excited that he and daddy would get quality time.  And I LOVE volunteering at the marathon!  There is absolutely nothing like it - the energy, the excitement, the joy-and-or-heartbreak, and the people - runners are a unique, weird, crazy breed, but Lord help me, I am one, and I love them.

8 am - I arrived at the finish line and begin orientation

8:50 am - Jon texts to tell me that S has peed all over himself, Jon, the changing table, and the wall.  We both find it moderately amusing, although me, far more so.  It's the first time in months.

9:17 am - We take pictures at the finish line, as we listen to the air gun sound off the wheelchairs in Hopkinton, and the clock begins to count the official time.

9:30 am - We begin bagging 30,000 bags of food for hungry exhausted runners - it's an exciting station, because we're less than a block from the finish line - we can see the bridge and the line from where we are, and the hum and buzz of excitement are already beginning.

10:25 am - I get excused from bagging food, so that I can pump breast milk for my son.  I end up sitting on the floor, in the entryway to the ladies room, attempting to be modest by semi-hiding behind a trashcan.  It does not work.  I decide that it is next to impossible to modestly express milk in public places.  I get tangled in my jacket at least 5 different ways, flash at least 4 people, and barely make it through the whole process with any shard of dignity.  All this on the floor, behind a trashcan.  I consider how funny this whole situation is, and how much I will enjoy relating it later.

12:15 pm(ish) - runners begin to finish, finish line area begins to get busy.  The runners are smiling, most of them happy with their times.  The wind is cold, and they're shivering.  Sore.  Limping.  Hurting.  Falling.  But they've made it.  Energy is high.  Most are happy.  They all want bananas.  :)

2:20 pm - I need to pump again, and can't get out of the runners chute - I attempt to do so behind a garbage truck, again tangled in said jacket, and then make eye contact with one of my former students and decide this is a bad idea/next to impossible to do so modestly.  I will just wait until I leave at 3.

2:42 pm - check the time, and consider leaving early, pumping first, and then going home.  Decide to grit through it and stay until 3pm.  The runners are 5-10 wide, cold, and the chute is packed.

2:47 pm (by my clock) - first explosion, less than 30 seconds later, second explosion.  We see it - the big cloud of grey white smoke.  We feel it.  We hear it.  

Bear in mind, that the runners are 5-10 wide, and solidly packed in the chute.  In our area alone, there were hundreds, and thousands.  And yet, as a unified field, when the first explosion sounds, the area goes silent, and every head turns toward it.  Then there is noise, questions, chatter, confusion. "I think it might be a transformer again - remember how that happened last summer and knocked out all the power?" Then the second explosion.  "I think it was on the green line T - is that two stations?  Bomb?" Someone yells, "RUN." Panicked, stiff, limping, shivering runners coax sore muscles into action. 

Someone official yells for us not to panic.  The crowd slows.  Some walk, some run. But there is a momentary pause in the panic.  I return to passing out food bags.  "No, I don't know what it was... no, I don't think it was planned.  Someone is saying bombs, but we don't know."  No one knows.  I call Jon to tell him to turn on the news, I'm okay, but something is wrong - can he find out what's wrong.  Then, a roar, rumbling, movement of hundreds of people moving.  I wonder if it's the explosion of a moving train beneath the ground, under our feet.  Someone official yells that we need to clear out.  Now.  And the crowd surges forward.  I run.  I notice my phone has fallen out of my pocket, and turn back with panicked expression, trying to decide if I should go back to get it.  All I can see is panicked faces and people running.  Some running towards the explosions.  Some running away.  Limping.  Trying to make phone calls.  I leave it behind and keep running, jumping the fence out of the chute with a grandmother trying to find her family.  Two blocks away, I realize that I'm still carrying three food bags that I had been handing out.  I put them down, and keep moving.  

I am afraid, yes.  But all I can think is that I just want to get home to Jon and S.  To let them know that I'm okay.  "I just want to f**ing be home. I want to hold my baby and be held by my husband."  I am not courageous.  I do not think about staying or helping.  Until I get home and start the guilt-inducing thought-spiral of shoulda coulda woulda.  But let's be honest, this is not a heroic story, a servants story, or even a compassionate story - although I could tell you those or try to spin this as such.  That would be false, and I promised you honesty, even when ugly. It's just my story.  And all I could think of was being home with my family.  And telling them that I loved them.  And so I ran home.

There are sirens everywhere.  Police, ambulance, SWAT team, fire trucks.  Everywhere.  And then there's the "repent or go to hell" truck.  Next to the SWAT truck.  I curse.  And sirens everywhere.  Everyone on their cell phones.  Looking for family members.  Moving.  Confused.  No one knows what has happened.  But everyone knows that something is wrong.  Out-of-towners are consulting maps - no one knows where they are.  They cross streets in front of sirens, not even looking.  Everyone is confused.  Moving.  The sirens aren't just heading for Copley square.  They're heading to all the transit stations as well.  Everyone is on their cell phones.  No one can get a call out.

It's not a sense of mass panic; just confusion.  No one knows what has happened/is happening.  And very few people know where they are.   We stop in front of a store that has the news on, myself and 15 strangers, circling the windows - trying to figure out what happened.  The news doesn't know anything either.  They just keep showing the same picture.

I run into an older woman who wants to know what happened - her daughter-in-law called in a panic.  I tell her I don't know, and I ask if I can use her cell phone to call my husband.  She asks if its long-distance.  I smile, and say "Don't worry about it.  Everything will be okay.  Don't worry." I pass a woman - a girl, really, crying on the street, on her phone.  "I can't look at the pictures anymore.  There's so much blood everywhere.  And body parts.  I feel like I'm going to be sick.  There's blood everywhere."

I've walked the mile and a half now, to the station which will get me to the other side of the water - every station I've passed so far has at least 2 squad cars and armed guards at the gates.  Some are closed.  This one looks completely normal.  I get on the train, with only 7 people in the car.  Two finishers, 2 strangers, and a few family members.  One finisher makes small talk with me - I'm still wearing my credentials and gear.  He doesn't know yet.  I can't be the one to tell him.  I don't know anything either.  

On the other side of the water, I get out and walk home.  I don't want to stay underground - because I don't know.  No one knows.  

4:30 pm - I get home, and sob into Jon's arms.  I hold my son and cry.  And I cry.  And cry.  And cry.  And don't let go of either of them.  Texts, voicemails, facebook messages.  Yes, I'm fine.  Yes, we're fine. We begin to watch the news. And then I begin to know what I didn't know earlier.  People are dead.  Lots of people are injured.  And they say its a bomb.  Two bombs.  And they don't know how many more.

All I can think about is how badly I need to pump.  How I need to find my cell phone (a random stranger picked it up).  And how much I love my husband and my son.  I wander around our house in a daze.  They tell me this is shock, distancing, mental protection and shutdown.      Then guilt kicks in - I should have - I could have - I would have - I should have.  But I didn't.  Maybe it was fear that made me run home.  I think it was some combination of fear and love - who knows how the parts equalized - I'd like to think it was mostly love. 

And here I am now.  It's the next day - and I need to process.  But I don't know what to process.   Lord have mercy.  Jesus have mercy.  Lord have mercy.  It's wrong.  It's messed up. But it's surreal.  It don't fully resonate or make sense. I was there.  I saw it. But I didn't see.  I was a block away.  But I live here.  This is my city.  Those were my places.  My people.  My marathon.  It feels foreign.  Yet real.  And surreal.    I am not angry.  But I am angry.  I don't feel.  But I do. I am shocked by the events of the day.  But I'm not shocked by the heinous nature of the crime or the brutality. I am not scared.  I don't worry that there will be more. I am grieving for it all, even though that isn't always emotionally evoked for me.  I am grieving for myself, my friends, and this city - the loss of innocence and the loss of a sense of "safe."  I feel loved by those around us - from as far away as Russia to as near as the next street over from us, in the hundreds of messages we got checking in to make sure we were okay.  We are okay.  But we're not.  

I'm not quite ready to speak in faith, to talk about how good wins over evil, how we will rise again, to speak of how strong Boston's spirit is, to talk about how God will use this situation for good.  I know those things are true.  But I promised you honesty, even when its ugly.  And those are not my words just yet.  But this is what I do know:  we're grieving and that's okay.  We're not alone, and that's a good thing.  Love is a good thing, and it was not absent yesterday.  For every story of hatred, there were many many more of love.  And even when I can't see it yet, I believe and know that God is still good, and is greater than these things.  I know that Love wins.  And so I cling to that, in hope, even in the midst of places like these that run so completely counter to it.  May hope rise.  

You're the God of this City

You're the King of these people

You're the Lord of this nation

You are.

You're the light in this darkness

You're the Hope to the hopeless

You're the Peace to the restless

You are.

For greater things have yet to come

And greater things are still to be done in this City

For greater things have yet to come

And greater things are still to be done in this City

* Chris Tomlin, God of this City