I was able to take some time yesterday to write about the events on Monday. I am more thankful to be back to work and a regular routine than you could imagine. Life is precious and can be gone in the blink of an eye. Here's my story of Marathon Monday.
My Jehovah-Sabaoth,
As your story of love and protection of over my life on
April 15 is read by lots, I pray that your miracles of work shine brightly in
this story. So bright that those
that don’t know you as savior (SAVIOR!) will, and those who have set you aside
will start a new relationship with you.
You are the Lord who rules the angels, the sun, the Heavens… and the
street corner of Boylston and Hereford in Boston, Massachusetts, USA.
We left from Houston to Boston on Saturday and when we
arrived, we were greeted with cool weather and buzzing streets filled with the
famous blues and yellows. We loved
coming. It is the most famous, most beloved, most historical, most prestigious
of all races. The Super Bowl or World Series of marathons. Except this event
wasn’t team vs. teams...it is a camaraderie of ‘friends’ all over the world who
run together to add to the history, the richness, the joy of The Boston
Marathon.
“Friends” because no matter who dad is running with, you
too, would soon become friends…
On April 15th at 4:30 am, dad rustled around the
hotel room looking for his phone to check the weather. “Perfect” he whispered
with his bifocals on and feet on the ground ready to start the
getting-dressed-for-a-marathon process that takes about 2 hours…
I put my coat on and go down to get breakfast and coffee for
us, that he had tried the day before to make sure it was gonna be good on his
stomach for the race…Everything down to shoelaces is a much thought out
process.
“Singlet or no singlet, hat or visor, new shoes, or lucky
green shoes, PR today or just enjoy the race?”….these were all very serious
questions of the morning.
(a PR for him would be 3:45, and in his wave start….finish
is 4 hours after…the exact time the first bomb went off..at the finish line)
6:50 am we start downstairs to meet up with fellow runners
to catch the bus that takes the runners out to Hopkington. I take pictures of dad with his running
buddies. He is so thankful for a cool, clear morning. He is thankful to be
healthy enough to run this race. I love the energy and the experience.
I eat breakfast with a family whose daughter is running for
the first time and it eases their concerns when we plan out where the best
places were to see along the course. Take the green-line
subway to Heartbreak Hill or go where dad knows I’ll be? Go where he knows I’ll
be…
I pack up our hotel
room because check-out was after the race would be over. Take the bags to the
valet so they can hold them until we are back. Keep my room key so that I can
come back later this afternoon to the business office to print out our boarding
passes.
9:30 am I walk down
Boylston (on the side of the bombings) to Starbucks. (where the second bomb
went off) get my upside-down caramel macchiato and go outside and look up to
the skies, it was such a beautiful morning. The buildings are so
architecturally beautiful in Boston.
I take pictures. There wasn’t a crowd gathered at the finish line yet,
the race hadn’t even started and I knew that it was a coveted place to be….I
thought about staying there to have a front row position to see the WINNERS OF
THE 2013 BOSTON MARATHON! Na, I thought, dad won’t know I’m here. This isn’t
where we planned on me being. So I walked to the corner of Commonwealth and
Hereford. And I found the most awesome spot. On top of a hill, grassy area, in
the sun. I cheered as the front
runners came through. Sent video footage to my friends and family. I love
watching athletes at work. I was amazed. After they passed by, I had about 2
hours before my dad’s wave was coming to that spot, so I headed off to grab
some lunch at a little local bookstore/restaurant. Trident Booksellers and Café. I charged my phone and warmed
up with some lunch and loved roaming around in the books.
At 1:30 I headed out
to my spot where dad knew I would be. On the corner of Commonwealth and
Hereford.
As I type this part
of the story, my heart is beating faster and tears are coming on, because I
know what’s coming….
I was scheduled to
receive messages along the course to know what pace dad was doing. He passed
the halfway mark RIGHT ON PACE! I was so excited for him! It was a perfect day
to PR! He comes running up the last hill and I spot him! Red visor, orange
singlet, bright green shoes! He looks great! BIG smiles, high fives!
“DAD! YOU ARE
AWESOME! MEET YOU BACK AT THE HOTEL! GOOOOOOOO BOSTON MARATHON RUNNAHHHH!!”
My eyes follow him
as he courageously runs up Hereford street and makes the corner onto Boylston.
I am so proud!
A minute after he
turns the corner, I hear it. (this is a vision that keeps repeating)
Its deafening.
A boom I thought was
confetti, or a cannon, or construction, or thunder, or the roar of a crowd at
Fenway Park.
Before I saw the
smoke coming over the buildings, had to have been 100 police with shields over
their faces, machine guns drawn, come running down the streets.
“You must leave the
area! It is not safe here! Grab your belongings and leave the area!”
“Ummmm, what did he
say?”
BOOM!!
A second bomb explodes.
Screams, sirens, helicopters,
yelling police, runners crying in confusion off of the course….
My heart sank into
the pit of my stomach because I knew. I could see where the smoke was coming,
and I knew. I knew that was the exact location where my dad was. And,
I never received the confirmation, automated text that had crossed the finish
line. In fact, the athlete tracker shows his last known area in the exact spot of the second bomb.
Police officers were
shoulder-to-shoulder pushing the spectators into an alleyway. My eyes couldn’t
stop searching.
Searching.
Searching. If I
could only get a glimpse of the red visor and orange singlet and bright green
shoes. I could hear myself breathing hard, short, desperate breaths. I could
never catch my breath. My eyes
squinted so that I could see better through the smoke. And I tried to block out
the yelling of police officers so that maybe I could hear dad yelling for me.
Still searching. So
desperate.
Ashley Crowder
calls.
“Leah, are you ok?”
I can’t remember
what I said. I was so desperate.
Dropped phone call
after dropped phone call.
“Maam, you must stay
here! You can not go out there,
its very dangerous.”
“I know, sir, but I
know my dad is in that smoke. I know he is.”
“I’m sorry, but I
can’t let you go out of this alley, its not safe, there may be more bombs in
the area.”
An hour later they
moved us to Fenway park. They told us it wasn’t safe to be outside. We didn’t
know if the bombs were coming from the air or buildings. They also told us that
the suspect could still be in the crowds.
There isn’t a word
to describe how I felt. Thinking that my dad is dead or seriously injured or
that another bomb could go off right where I was standing. No words, just
searching and trying to breathe. I
had to pull up my scarf over my nose and mouth because the smell of gas and
smoke was so strong. I kept my
pink hat on hoping that it would catch dad’s eye…if he was close by. Please be close by.
I had to get out of
Fenway Park. I had been inside the park for 2 hours. 2 hours with crazy people and police with machine guns. And
no cell phone service. So I decided to leave. I walked out and a policeman
tried to stop me again. Through teary eyes and a shaky voice I said, “I need to
find my dad. He was in that explosion. I know it. I’ve calculated the timing in
my head over and over and...” This
policeman told me that “they were taking the injured to Mass Blah Blah Blah
Hospital. And the directions are this way…” I was not trying
to block out his words, but I was trying to block out his words...My head knew
that dad was in the Blah Blah hospital, but my heart wouldn’t hear of it. So I
started walking towards the Blah blah hospital.
And my phone rings. (my
phone rings!) It was my uncle in Africa. He tells me that the news was reporting
that no runners were seriously injured! This was such a glimmer of hope for me.
Hope, that just maybe he was ok. The
phone call never cuts out as it had when Ashley called. Or when Duncan called.
My journey to the
hospital turned into a hope that maybe he made his way to the hotel instead. At
this point, I had been gone for 3 hours. And I was 5 miles away from
Commonwealth and Hereford Street.
I couldn’t even
remember the name of our hotel. Park Place? No, Boston Place? Parkland?
So I stopped a policeman
and asked, “Can you please help me? Please? I need to find my dad. What is the
name of the hotel next to the Boston Gardens?”
The policeman
explained to me through dark sunglasses that all of the hotels were on
lockdown. Anyone inside, had to go to their rooms and no one from outside could
go in…He said that there were rumors that a bomb was found inside a hotel by
the finish line…
Breathe deep and
keep searching.
I remembered that I
had kept my room key and I got it out of my backpack. On the back was written:
Boston Park Plaza
Hotel
50 Park Plaza
Boston, MA 02116
(617) 426-2000
I brought the card
closer.
No way.
I held the card to
my heart. And closed my eyes. Just
for a little miracle of a second, I thought, “I have been saved. Saved! SAVED
by The Savior. The Jehovah-Sabaoth!”
I called the phone
number. The numbers on my screen
were locked? And my phone still wouldn’t work.
I typed the address
into my maps..and it worked! It was 4.3 miles away! So I tightened up my
backpack and started jogging. Every 15 min or so, I would try to call the hotel
to see if dad was there. No service.
An hour later, I
came to familiar area. I walked up to the hotel..thinking they wouldn’t let me
in. And the automatic doors opened and I saw him! Bright green shoes! Orange
singlet! I was overcome with emotion. I cried tears of joy. My tears all day
had been tears of fear.
There were no cabs
leaving, but we found a van that was taking people to the airport. So we threw our bags in and jumped in.
Dad was still in his marathon clothes.
We heard there were no flights leaving Boston. But we went anyway.
We got to airport
security and the lady says, “Sir, you need to take the safety pins out of the
race bib..”
We found our
terminal and our flight was only delayed 30 minutes. We sat down in the seats
and sat in a state of shock. Neither one of us said anything for about 45 min.
Until dad said, I think I’m gonna go change clothes and get a hamburger. While he’s in the bathroom the lights
in the whole airport go out. The whole airport…
I’m still in a stage
of fear, but I don’t even think I reacted to the outage. Three K9 unit dogs are
walking around the area smelling all of our suitcases. I still don’t react. I reach out to pet
the dog sniffing my suitcase and “Um, maam, you can’t pet the dogs” as he points to the PLEASE DON’T PET ME
sign on his neck.
We board and fly
home. I still took short breaths. I still couldn’t feel. I had seen blood. Lots
of blood. Destruction. Mass chaos. I could hardly move my body. Or my eyes. I couldn’t
look at a magazine. Or watch tv. Or respond to the flight attendant.
We made it home. Our
plane landed at 12:30. As we drove home, we started talking about what happened.
It was surreal.
I finally was able
to hug Duncan’s neck and kiss Waylon. I was home. Safe. I laid in bed last
night and cried. I was overcome.
Overwhelmed. How come I made it home with not a bruise or broken bone or
shrapnel? There was a man out there wanting to kill me. Such an incredibly odd
feeling.
When I woke up this
morning, I had an overwhelming sense of being alive. ALIVE! God had spared me
and my dad! I still have a life of purpose to live. I spent all day wrapping my head around what I had seen. I
tried to decompress. And I wanted to write my story. I wrote so that I wouldn’t forget how my Savior Lives. My
Savior reigns. My Savior loves. My Savior lives.
I don’t know why bad
things happen, but I know little miracles do.
The sun, the red
birds and the spring flowers remind me that things will be alright. I will
recover, but hopefully this stays in my heart forever.
