I don't often write blog posts in the aftermath of tragedies.
I guess it's because at times like these, words fail me, and I'm sensitive to the pain and grief of those directly affected. While I'm truly grateful for the reflection and comfort offered by others, I'm wary of feeding into what can sometimes feel like a collective appetite for sensationalism.
Also, I tend to cocoon with my family in the wake of tragic events. I turn off television and social media and hold my children close. When my husband and I discuss what's happened, we do so in hushed whispers after the kids have gone to bed. We do this to protect them. To keep them safe.
But this morning, when I turned on my computer and saw on a good friend's Facebook feed that she was asking for prayers for their dear friends, The Richard family, who lost their 8-year-old son in yesterday's Boston Marathon bombing, I was unable to hide my grief.
I had heard yesterday that a young boy was among the causalities, and like all of us in New England and around the country, I felt a mix of shock, anger and despair for the city of the Boston and the victims of this terrible act. When anyone is harmed in an event like this, it's heartbreaking, but there is an acute and singular anguish when it's a child.
Then, when I read my friend's post, I realized I had met this family, years ago, at our friends' wedding. Suddenly, it all became even more immediate, and terrible, and the emotions that I'd been hiding from my kids came spilling out.
I called my friend. She lives in Texas, now. She was doing what I was, what so many of us as parents do, putting on a strong, reassuring face for her kids while sneaking into the bedroom to catch bits of news, to cry--and to grieve. I told her I remembered her friends from their wedding. She told me a bit more about them. What remarkable, beautiful people they are, beloved in their community, civic-minded and actively doing all they can to improve their town and make it a better, safer place to live.
She told me how helpless she felt being far away. She and her husband are longtime Bostonians but work has brought them west. Her voice tight and thick, she said, "This is
my city."
I understood.
I remember feeling the same way after 9/11--wanting to be back in the place where I grew up, to do something,
anything that would make me feel less helpless. I feel it again, now.
I wished I could say something to ease her pain, but all I could do was tell her I love her, and that she and her friends were in my prayers.
When I hung up the phone, I thought about the Richards. I remember the conversation we had at the wedding because we were doing what all new parents do when out for a blissful night of freedom without kids: talking about our kids. Like us, they had a baby at home. Like us, they were learning to balance having a new family with work, marriage, etc. Like us, they would go on to have two more children and build a life in a tight-knit New England community.
They are just like us.
I imagined the countless ways, big and small, they made sure to keep their children safe. I saw them buckling their babies into safety seats and holding the back of the bicycle to keep it steady; dolling out veggies on the plate and keeping a bedside vigil when one had a bad cough or a fever. I saw the look of heart-wrenched worry that first day they watched their kids go off to school after Newtown. Imagined them fingers crossed at their son's game, hoping he'd get a hit, or score a goal.
Like us, I know they did everything within their power every day, to keep their children safe.
And yet...
My kids saw me crying. I told them what happened. Then I reassured them, as best as I could, that things would be ok. I told them the stories of the heroes of yesterday. How the people of Boston came together to help each other. I told them what I know to be true--that the city will heal, and I asked them to pray for the Richards, and all the families affected by the tragedy.
I hope that is enough to keep them safe.
