A year and a half ago, it wouldn't have affected me the same way. We live near the President. We're always a target. It's a risk we're willing to take for ourselves to do what we do - to live the way we do.
But today I hold my baby boy in my arms. His breath is warming my shoulder. His strong little limbs - limbs that are just now taking wobbly steps - are quiet in his sleep. I feel the softness of his skin, his little body heavy in my arms. I feel differently.
I think of a mother who once held her little boy just like I am today, his weight heavy in her arms. I can imagine her smelling his head, breathing in his baby smell. I can imagine her pride as he took his first steps, and her joy as his personality formed. I can imagine her heart swelling at his sweetness, his kindness, watching him march for peace - asking for "no more hurting people." I imagine her watching her boy watch the runners, and the horror that must have followed the explosion.
I think of her loss today, as she recovers in the hospital. How she has to teach her little girl to live without a brother, and to live without legs. Who told her he is gone? Does she even know the extent of the loss?
We think of IEDs as an instrument of war, far away, not in our cities, not on American soil. We think of strong soldiers, fighting for our freedom, who face these deadly devices in a sun scorched desert across the world. It's not supposed to happen here. But war has, once again, come to our shores.
Today we have a choice. We can hide our son away, never taking him to the many historical sites just down the road, never taking him to the many festivals or activities on our doorstep. We can live in fear and try to protect him, praying he never has to know these things happen in the world, constantly vigilant. Or we can put our trust in His creator, and believe that there's a purpose for his little life, pray that life is long, and that this kind of tragedy is the exception, not the rule. We can tell him the stories of people who rushed to help the injured. We can teach him about those who dedicate their lives to protecting his - whether first responder, soldier, IT specialist, doctor or just a neighbor or friend. We can teach him to be a helper, to be courageous, to be kind.
As I filter for my grief for that mother, tears rolling down my face, stories flitting over the screen, I have a choice. And today, I choose faith. I choose trust. I choose to believe there's more good in this world than bad. I choose to continue to live, and try to live without fear. And I continue to pray for those parents who can no longer hold their child's firm little body, who have to learn to live with their injuries, and who somehow have to find the strength to trust again.
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