Boston saved me

Boston saved me. 

My first Boston was an act of pure faith. The circumstances and coincidences that got me to the starting line were nothing short of miraculous. 

And the best part is that I knew that too. I knew it as I crossed that starting line. I knew it at my gasping, sobbing finish. 

I knew I’d been given a gift. I’d been rescued from anger and hate. I’d been yanked back from spiritual death. I’d been reborn. I was the phoenix, rising from decades of ashes. 

Boston, the runners, the spectators and volunteers, the course itself, healed me.   

My love is ferocious; my gratitude fearless and strong. All that I am, all that I have become, all that I will be, is because of Boston.  

    

Because I lived in darkness once I know to celebrate the light. I go to Boston every year to search it out. 

I find it in the glorious struggling runners around me. I find it in the eyes of the spectators and volunteers. I let Boston in, and Boston lifts me.   

Boston is was and always will be my light. 

I pray for those grieving. I pray for those mourning the physical and spiritual deaths. I pray for Boston, my marathon, my miracle, my love.