Boston.

The TV is blaring the news. Stories of tragedy. Stories of heroism. Stories of things we don't want to think can happen in the world.

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.

Dreaming Through the Wavy Glass

I have a love affair with windows. I particularly love old windows. They don't have to be fancy. They don't have to be perfectly painted. I love traditional, paned windows with chippy paint. I love large windows that dominate a wall, with their sheets of sunlight that travel across the floor as the sun travels the sky. I love little windows - the kind that look as if they were an afterthought - that offer little slips of blue as you wind down an attic stair.

My love affair with windows probably started in my childhood. I watched the world through the hand-poured, wavy glass of my bedroom windows. The tall trees would wave and sway on the other side of that glass, budding and greening in the spring, their outstretched arms filling through the summer, shedding in showy pleasure in the fall only to ice over with delicate fingers in the cold of winter. I watched the birds fly far, far away in the sky or nest in the arms of those trees, while the chipmunks foraged in their roots - the slight distortion giving the scene an otherworldly quality. I'd lay in the floor under those windows, sunning myself on a pallet as I read book after book and dreamed of foreign lands. In many ways, my dreams began as I watched the world renew, grow and soar through those windows.

Today, I have a tiny baby boy. He's not very old, but he's got a Mama who's a dreamer - and who's not too bad a planner either. I saw a picture the other day that sparked an idea fanned into a flame by my love of windows. And now my head is full of dreams and designs for a tiny house of windows where I hope he, too, will learn to love windows, look at the world a little differently, and dream great dreams.

I'm starting young. Because if a Mama doesn't dream, how will her children ever learn to let their dreams take flight?