I woke up yesterday full of life. It was Marathon Monday. Patriots Day. Our proud Massachusetts Holiday.
It’s hard for people that aren’t from Massachusetts to understand Patriots Day. Thousands of people line the streets from Hopkinton to Boston to cheer on total strangers. We cheer with such zealous abandon that runners flock from around the globe to experience the race that goes by one name: Boston. We cheer for all: men, women, handicapped, able, fat, thin, young, old, slow, fast, gay, straight, black, brown, white, yellow. The city stops, rejoices, supports, and proudly stands as one.
Thousands of people come together in support of their fellow man, doing anything they can to inspire strangers to accomplish their goals. Spectators see athletes for a brief moment as they run, believe in them completely, and then part ways most likely never to see each other again.
Monday, as I walked home from work at 2:00pm I thought of my friends and family lining the course. On cue, my friend Scott texted me an update on his “performance” as a spectator: Motivating hundreds if not thousands with high fives and cow belling.
That is the Boston Marathon: selflessly motivating others. Picking one another up. As he encouraged athletes through final miles of the race, they inspired him with their strength. With runners streaming past him at 2:15pm he texted me in awe, Really can’t fathom how human beings do this.
He saw people pushing 26.2 miles in a wheelchair. Veterans running in army fatigues. Mothers and Fathers running in memory of their deceased loved ones. People who were 75 years old. People who were overweight. How do they accomplish such a seemingly insurmountable challenge? Where does the strength come from?
I arrived home at 3:00pm. I turned on the TV. Fire. Smoke. Debris. Blood. Glass. Limbs. Screams. Running. Heroes.
We tend to abuse language in our society and revert to clichés when unable to tap into our genuine emotion. That is not the case here. Unbelievable. Speechless. Heartbroken.
Scott’s words took on new meaning; I really can’t fathom how human beings do this. As we question who, how, and most deeply question why, his message will echo in my head: I really can’t fathom how human beings do this.
I, too, can’t fathom this hatred, but I can fathom this: I can fathom that we will rebuild. I can fathom that we will love. I can fathom how we will persevere. I can fathom how we will strengthen.
I can look to the memories of heroes running towards destruction, undaunted by danger and relentless in their devotion to strangers. Let’s fathom how we will tightly grip our traditions. Let’s fathom how to pick each other up. Let’s fathom that good always trumps evil.
We will go forward, and the marathon shows us how: We will line our proverbial streets by the thousands. We will cheer for men, women, handicapped, able, fat, thin, young, old, fast, slow, gay, straight, black, brown, white, yellow. We will lift them up. We will encourage one another to push through seemingly insurmountable barriers. We will watch in wonder as strangers accomplish incredible feats, and we will take pride in knowing we played a role in their triumph. We will do this together. We will work hard, encounter setbacks, climb hills and descend into valleys. There will be times when we think we must stop. We will tire and believe our individual will has been broken. And at that precise moment someone will cheer us on. Someone in Hopkinton and someone in Holland. Someone in Wellesley and someone in Washington. Someone at Cleveland Circle and someone in Cleveland. Someone in Kenmore and someone in Kenya. They will inspire us. We will inspire them. We will line the streets and push each other over Heartbreak Hill. We are Bostonians. We are Americans. We are Humans. Together, we will go on.
