I ran for two minutes today. Not because I needed the exercise (even though I do), or because it's part of my routine (even though it should be), or because I'm super fit (even though the "two minute" proclamation assumes great fitness *sarcasm*)...but because for me, it hurts.
I am not a runner. I've never been a runner...even when I was super fit and super skinny...my body just doesn't like to function at speeds greater than 3 miles per hour.
But I've been and am, passionate about certain things. Like the church (though it infuriates me). And ice cream (even though it's the reason I should be running). And photography (even though I don't have the proper tools). I love to travel (even though we don't get to do much of it). And I love animals (even though the one laying on my foot right now, is snoring so loud I can't concentrate).
And so I get it. A little.
I get what it means to love something so much, that you're willing to wake up at 4:00 in the morning to participate...to put your money into your gear, rather than your house or your car or your stuff. I get what it means to find joy beyond description when you've gone a little farther or done something a little different, one day. And I understand what it means to set goals and enter contests that you know you'll never win. I know what it's like to call strangers "friends" simply because your hearts beat for the same passion. I get it.
And that's why our hearts ache for those in Boston today. And will, for some time. As those who found their passion on the streets, urged their limbs to do the unimaginable, matching each breath with the pounding of rubber on concrete...now find themselves wracked with new fear and find themselves with limbs that don't work the way they used to and find themselves clinging for breath, period.
And so today, I ran for two minutes. Not because I should (even though it's probably a good idea). Or because I love it (because I really don't).
But because today, there are those who can't.