A Boy In India

Last year I was contacted to write the experiences of others in an effort to bring light to community involvement. The stories, from myself and others, were then published to raise awareness in reaching outside our comfort zones.  

Although this particular story does not focus on my usual love of running, the subject of this story is of a fellow marathoner therefore, I suppose, it fits perfectly.

When running long distances, the finish line brings often clarity to our lives as well as a new sense of strength.  

Sometimes it takes a little boy.

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The callous on his heart controlled his emotions.  God had brought him here, to India.  Never had he beheld so many abandoned or sick people, tossed out of their homes by family as carelessly as one tosses out a bag of trash for Tuesday’s garbage day.  His heart felt very little for the pain and suffering he saw all around him.  This bothered him, yet the callous remained.

Today’s visit brought the team to a hospital.  Here the main task was to simply reach out and touch those who have forgotten what a touch by another feels like.  As directed by the staff, they would each spend time with a patient before moving on to the next. 

His job today would be holding a child that could not use his legs.  Scooping down he lifted the child onto his lap.  Words were spoken in different languages yet transcended understanding.  Only God could make two people understand each other’s language with a simple stirring in the heart.

When it was time to move on, he set his new friend down and rose to leave.  Walking away, he heard the heartache in his sister’s voice as she called his name.  Their eyes locked and he saw the tears brimming her eyes.  Turning around he found the child desperately pushing himself along the floor, dragging his legs behind him, in a desperate effort to get closer to him once again. 

That sound.  That sound pierced his heart and it was that sound that broke him.

The sound of the boy’s legs dragging behind him violently ripped the callous off of his heart.  His heart was now raw and flooding with emotion.  God used that precious little boy to give him the unmistakable picture of God desperately coming after him.  Just as with this child, God only wanted his love.  

He broke down and wept.

The Greatest Run

The bed was warm and I lay wide awake.  Four of my running friends were on the opposite coast set to run the Boston Marathon.  Anxiety and excitement rolled around my nerves making sleep scarce.

I glance over and watch the clock flip to 4:00 a.m.  Should I just get up and go for a run?  Knowing I was headed to the track after work to run with others from our group, I decide the smart thing to do is rest my hamstring.  My next marathon is 3 weeks away, and although I am not racing it, there was no need to push my recovery back into injury.

Local cable did not carry coverage of the Boston Marathon; I had to be content with pulling it up online and watching it on the computer.  My social media newsfeed began filling with pictures of the Athlete's Village and bus rides to Hopkinton.

The race begins, my family and I watch all while preparing for a normal Monday.  My heart longs to be there.  There is no jealousy, simply twinges of longing knowing your friends are there experiencing one of the world's greatest marathons and you are home missing the party.  With a sigh, I shut the computer down and head to work.

Once at work, I go about my day while keeping one eye on the Athlete Tracker.  I have plugged my friends' names into the online tracker and I watch their 5k splits.  Karen, Pat and I trade emails throughout the morning rejoicing with each new split that appears.  3,000 miles away and we are watching Arlane, Melissa, Kathy and Amy nail their goal times.

The 3 of us become concerned when Kathy's splits stop at the 20k mark.  For well over an hour we are left wondering why she seems to have stopped racing.  Injury?  Faulty timing chip?   We knew it had to be something big to pull her off the course.  To travel that far, to run that race and not finish would be heartbreaking.

Little did we know how prophetic our fears would be.

At the 35k mark a split floods in and we are relieved to realize she is still running.  It must be a faulty chip.

Amy finishes, soon after Arlane crosses and a moments later Melissa does too.  We are ecstatic.  We watch and wait for Kathy unsure of anything as her chip is not working correctly.  Did she already cross the 40k mark?  How close is she to the finish?

Then it happened.  Panic set in at the realization our friends were right there.  After racing, Arlane and Melissa would have made their way back to the finisher's chute to watch Kathy come in.  Wasn't the explosion near their meeting point?  I felt ill.

Karen called me immediately.  We both cried openly as we tried to make sense of the senseless.  I called Stephanie, who was there on the sidelines solely to cheer on our friends. I couldn't get through.  Text messages went out to all of them, even though we knew they weren't running with their phones.

After 30 agonizing minutes Stephanie was able to call me.  Arlane and Kathy are unaccounted for; she was with Melissa and Amy.  The phone went dead.  Emails, phone calls and text messages fly rapidly between Karen, Pat and myself.  Social media was flooded with little information, just many questions.  I cry when reading "All from Bellingham are accounted for except Kathy and Arlane."

An hour later a number I do not recognize registers on my cell phone.  I answer before the first ring finishes.  Stephanie has made it back to the hotel and they are now with Arlane.  They have heard from Kathy.  Relief floods every fiber of my being and I collapse into my chair.

Arlane comes to the phone, she speaks, I cry at the sound of her voice.  We talk and I am hard pressed to register anything she says, I am just so happy to hear her voice.    We hang up and as I post an update to our group I receive a private message.  It is from Kathy.  Strangers have taken her in to their home.  She was safe.

I cry again.

******

Spring skies open to a downpour.  Rain bounces off the ground.  I am heading to the track to meet my friends.  After the bombings in Boston and all the emotion of the day we knew, now more than ever, we still needed to come together.  We needed to run.

The rain has all but stopped as I pull into the school's parking lot.  Karen is waiting in her car.  We jump out of our cars and hug each other.  We cry again.  Today wasn't suppose to be like this, today was suppose to be a celebration of our friends running the greatest run of their lives.   Pat pulls in and we share in more hugs.  The sun begins to break from the clouds bringing a glisten to our tears.

We walk toward the track.  Stepping onto the black rubber of the quarter mile oval we feel at home.  But home is empty.  Part of our family is not there.  We begin to run with our hearts 3,000 miles away.   Our emotion spills into the run; anger quickens our pace, heartbreak propels us forward.

As numb as we feel, we are filled with gratitude.  We will see our friends again.  We will lace up our shoes and run together again.

And I suppose that alone makes for the greatest run of our lives.

A Much Needed Answer

To say I've been struggling with my running over the last year is to understate my battle.  Although I've tried to keep my struggle private, it often flowed out into my words as I told of my races; most notably the Wintrhop, Bellingham Bay and the California International marathons.

Any runner can attest to having a bad run or a bad race day; I was experiencing a bad race year.  The head games birthed from so many consistent bad races left me feeling more than overwhelmed.  I spent many quiet moments debating on giving up racing, especially marathons.  My friends are the ones who would push me when I couldn't.

About 6 weeks ago a group of us met for an easy 8 mile run; it was 8 miles on a simple route at a conversational pace.  I couldn't keep up.  I was walking at mile 6.  Mile 6.  I felt as if I had no skeleton and was running on empty despite a solid week's sleep and eating right.  Once I got home the only thing I wanted to do was sleep.  For 3 days. 

This is when I knew something was wrong.

Not one to run to the doctor for a sniffle or an ache or a pain, my doctor knew something was amiss simply because I was sitting in her office.  She asked a multitude of questions, poked and proded.  We sent my blood sample away to the lab and awaited results.

The answer didn't take long to receive.  I am anemic.  Never have I been happier to hear there is something wrong with me.  This diagnosis validated my struggle.  It wasn't that my mind wasn't tough enough, or I wasn't determined enough, or I wasn't good enough.   My body could not physically do what I was asking it to do.  Iron deficiency stole my ability. 

I stand now in the middle of hope and promise.  There are millions of people who live with this every day and I know I am not alone.  But right now it has given me an answer, a much needed answer, to questions I faced for too long. 

A new marathon season lies ahead and now, finally, I am excited to see what it holds.