Marshall Ramsey

This has been a tough week. A REALLY tough week. We’ve been pummeled, beat and smacked around by bad news.

First, the week started with the horrifying Boston Marathon bombing. We watched the explosion on our TVs, saw blood splattered across the sidewalk and mourned as we learned about the victims of this senseless murder. Then last night, a Mississippi man was arrested for allegedly sending ricin-tainted letters to Senator Wicker, Judge Holland and President Obama. We cringed as our state’s name was once again drug through the mud. And then to add icing to a really crappy news cake, we watched a small Texas town obliterated by a massive fertilizer plant explosion.  The images coming out of West, Texas look like a scene straight from Hell.  Now the forecast is for severe weather tonight. Oh joy.

My Twitter feed looks like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse’s inbox.

I got back in from my predawn run with the weight of the world on my shoulders. I stopped, took a sip of water and said to my wife, “I’ve been in the news business for over 20 years and this week is one of the worst I can remember. But you know, times aren’t any worse now than they have been in the past. Can you imagine having 24-hour Cable News and Twitter 150 years ago? “Over 26,000 casualties today in the battle of Shiloh today. Yellow Fever is wiping out small towns all across America.” We’d be freaking out! I guess bad news will always be with us. It’s just that we’re now getting a steady diet of it instantly.”

She nodded and said, “It’s no wonder half the country is on medication.”

Before I got ready to go to work, I kissed her goodbye, hugged the boys and watched them drive off to school. I then turned off the news, sat down and began to make a list.  On the top of that list, I wrote: “Good things in my life.”  And then I began to write.

After a couple of pages, I paused, read over the sheet and closed the little book I was writing in.  I watched the sun rise and said a prayer of thanks.

Today will be a better day.  It has to be.

The TV glowed as the man sat alone in the living room. It was nearly midnight and the rest of his family was asleep. Sleep had evaded him. Now, it was him, the cable news anchor and his memories. Memories triggered by what he saw on the television.  Blood was on the streets of Boston.  The bomb’s concussion brought back that dark day in Iraq. Boom. Boom. He felt himself gripping the arms of his chair tighter. PTSD wrapped its dark tentacles around him.

A small figure silently walked into the room.  The boy, five, had been born while his dad was overseas.  The child had never seen his father with legs.

“Are we going to be OK, dad?”

His dad jumped.  He didn’t like being surprised, but quickly recovered when he saw his little boy standing there.  Blue-eyed and blonde, his son was a splitting image of him.  He sighed. How could he answer that? He had seen the violence and hatred first hand. It had cost him his legs. It had cost him so much more.  So he fibbed a little bit.

“Oh course,we are going to be OK, Daniel.”

The little boy climbed up in the recliner and into his lap.  “I’m scared, dad.”

The dad pushed the boys bangs out of his face. “I’ll protect you. Promise.”  Once again, he couldn’t tell his son the truth. It was a question he really couldn’t answer. He (of all people) knew there was no protection from this sort of random killing other than vigilance and luck.

But he knew there was one thing he could do. He looked at his son. He knew he had to raise the boy not to hate. Not to have a dark heart like the bomber or all the shooters he had seen on TV.  It was all he could do.

“How will you protect me, dad?”

Sometimes questions at midnight were the hardest to answers.

“I just will, Daniel. I will protect you and your mother.”

Of course, he had not been able to protect his men who lost their lives that fateful day. Why did he survive and they died?  That was a question that rattled in his head occasionally. Survivor’s guilt they call it.  He was sure the folks in Boston would feel it too.

“Will the mean men win?”

This was a question the dad could answer.

“No. And let me tell you why.  Did you see all the people who rushed to help the victims? Did you see the runners run past the finish line to give blood? Did you see the city pull together? Did you see that?  That’s why the bad guys will never win.  When things get bad, we get good. They want us to be afraid. And maybe we are a little bit. But we’re stronger now. We get up and finish the race. The mean men messed up. They picked on the wrong people.”

“Like they picked on you?”

“Yes, son. They messed with the wrong guy when they picked on me.  Now, let me go tuck you in. We have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” It was one of the gifts of raising a son in the South. He loved hearing “Yes, sir.”

“Now goodnight, Daniel.”  The dad leaned over and kissed his son on the forehead. “Night, dad,” the little voice called out to him.

He walked out of the room and back into the living room. And over on the left, on the table by the foyer was a piece of paper. He picked it up and held it to his chest.  It was a marathon number. His marathon number.  Tomorrow he’d run his first one since the IED exploded.  He’d run it for his men. He’d run it for Boston.

He had gotten back up and was now going to finish the race.

Placing the number on the table, he smiled. The mean men had picked on the wrong man. Just like they messed up when they picked on Boston.

I got home last night and was on edge.  The Boston Marathon bombing had disturbed me more than it probably should have. I mean, c’mon, I wasn’t there. I wasn’t anywhere near Boston. But in my mind — well, in my mind I was.

I kept thinking about finishing the Marine Corps Marathon in 2010. The last .2 was up a hill into Arlington Cemetery. The finish was lined with thousands of friends and family members cheering on their loved ones. Just like yesterday in Boston.  I thought of my family, with their signs.  And then I saw the bomb go off.

It’s the curse of an active imagination.

I’m running the Marine Corps Marathon again this fall.  My wife asked me when I walked through the door, “You nervous?”

“Yeah,” I said. I can’t lie to her. She always knows when I do.

I put my stuff down on the kitchen table and said, “But I stand a better chance of dying from running a marathon than some bastard blowing me up.”

She nodded in agreement.  She has seen me run.

“And, we’ll be surrounded by about 10,000 Marines.” I smiled, trying to find comfort in my joke. It didn’t work.

But as I fell asleep last night, I remembered, life is a risk. That’s what makes the reward so great.

I am a runner.

I run for many different reasons: Weight control, endorphins, the beauty of nature and the comradeship of other runners.

I have run a marathon.

A the age of 42, I ran the 2010 Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, DC.  And I can’t  begin to explain the joy I felt when I crossed that finish line. When the United States Marine put the finisher medal around my neck, I cried. Like a baby.  Part of it was from the pain and exhaustion. But part of it was the overwhelming sense of accomplishment.

A bomb stole that from thousands of people yesterday in Boston. Worse, it stole the the lives from three people and the limbs from countless others. As Elton John once sang about another act of senseless violence, “Isn’t it funny how one insect can damage so much grain.”

I don’t know who planted the two bombs. I pray for swift justice for them. But I do know this, the spirit of the marathon survived the attack.

Marathons represent best of humanity; how mankind can overcome the harshest conditions. We saw that yesterday when the first responders rushed into action even before the smoke had cleared. We saw that when bystanders rushed into the crowd and helped the injured. We saw that when 78-year-old Bill Iffrig was knocked down by the concussion of the blast and got back up and finished the race.

The Boston Marathon will be like Bill Iffrig. It will get back up. And it will continue on. Because that’s the human thing to do.  It’s how we show scum like the bombers that they will never succeed.

It’s how good wins the day.