There we were. In Boston with our four children on April 15th to celebrate my son Yonahs 10th birthday.

A manual typewriter and a trip to city were his requests. So we pricelined a room and by absolute luck & chance found ourselves in Back Bay, 22 stories above Boylston Street. We did not intend to place ourselves in the marathons center, and are generally repelled by large crowds--but we went with it. The coincidence of his birthday aligning with the magic of the marathon seemed like a serendipitous way to celebrate. As we came up from the parking deck after arriving on the 14th, Yonah was high-ved by a group of revelers for having his birthday amidst Bostons biggest party. He was psyched. We were out in the streets early on the 15th. It was one of those spring mornings when blessedness seems to seep through the sidewalks and purr on the breeze. Blessedness colorized in blossoms and blue skies. Blessedness in birdsong. Blessedness in church bells. Blessedness in the basic goodness amplied and evident in every stranger crossed, in every ensuing encounter. Though it was the morning of the marathon and we were in its epicenter, the activity and preparation were unfolding in more of a quiet murmur than a frenzied buzz. Special Ops, surveillance trucks, and rst responders were lined down and gearing up in the green space of the Commonwealth Mall-but there was no intuited menace or angst. The ofcers were jovial. A shared ease was reected in the myriad greetings and glances of the gathering folk. A calm pulse was unveiling the meaning of the avenue: common wealth: common well-being This was the primary thing, the primary pulse--a collective ease & a shared joy. A common wealth, a common well being. A common wealth amongst all who were there to celebrate or facilitate the triumph of the runners--workers, volunteers, revelers, pedestrians, public servants, and bystanders--A common wealth, a common well-being --from Comm Avenue, up to Newbury street, and all along the sidewalks of Boylston. A common wealth, a common well being. The pulse and ease was sustained even as the crowds began to swell, the side cafes lled to brimming, and the mechanics of the race hit high gear. The police were everywhere, but no hand was heavy, and their tenor was more of crowd camaraderie than crowd control. Smiles were in every doorway, laughter on every corner. Markers were passed around to scroll support for runners on paper signs. Strolling beauties dispensed free Kind bars like candy at a parade. Coin jars were shaken for causes, petitions circulated for purposes. People made, not staked, room for one another. The hum and anticipation accelerated as the status of the race was shared amongst the gathered. When the victor of the disabled racers came rolling down the Boylston stretch, the crowd roared and the noisemakers whirled, the children clapped and the elderly whistled. The racer grinned from ear to ear. This was the best of humanity, the best of us--an undened, yet palpable kinship--a shared celebration of striving, of triumph over adversity. On this day, in this

city, at that moment, a country that had felt so upside down felt suddenly so right side up. A common wealth, a common well-being. We left the Finish line area just before the rst runners came through. Though the most of our family was delighted with the luck of our center spot, and reveling in the magic of the moments,Yonah kept stating that something was strange and did not feel right. His older brother told him to chill out. But the choice to leave would be his to make--we were there for his birthday after all. His wish was to head for the harbor. I suggested we could see the harbor anytime, but our spot near the nish was once in a lifetime. He was clear. Something did not feel right for him. He was ready to go. So we left our lucky spot and made way elsewhere in the city. On the way out, we asked a cop for guidance in getting around the course. He pinched our 1 year olds cheek, joked with us about the miles to cross, and tousled Yonahs hair. Enjoy our city! he shouted, as we wandered off in the direction he had pointed. (I would see him later in a slideshow on the Times --carrying an injured woman through the smoke & mayhem.) We had made our way to a taqueria across the river when the terrible moments occurred. We had no idea the tragic turn the event had taken. Our sweet Yonah, with his hyper-sensitive heart, covered his face with this hat and wept. We thought it was exhaustion. How could such a day become so violated? How could such a wide-hearted celebration turn to terror on the ip of a coin, a push of a keypad? How could another child--with a heart of peace and a smile of joy--have his life brutally taken while waiting to cheer the triumph of his father? How could this street fest of the transcendent will be so utterly transgressed? In a violent rift of the jubilant air, joy became trauma, serendipity became suffering, innocence. . . lost. I will say this: that one moment of violence was surrounded --before and after--by countless moments of unity, countless encounters of kindness. Every bit of material shrapnel was overwhelmed-- before and after--by an immaterial air of goodwill and kinship. There was no cynicism, or tourist fatigue, or crowd competitiveness prior--and there remained a triumph of the human spirit after. Darkness may be cast by the desperate and loathing manifest by the lost. But the light is always bigger-- multiplying and brightened on every side of the shadow's path. Or perhaps it is not that the light is bigger, but that the shadow is only a ickering disturbance in a surround of splendor, a minor chord in a redemptive Chorale. It came as no surprise to hear the crowd responded with an immediate and seless service. No surprise that the vitality of joy turned to a heroic tending of the trauma. No surprise that thousands of Boston doors opened to shelter thousands of visiting strangers. For our family this event brought the potential of harm particularly close. The pain inicted on the people feels all the more tangible having just shared the streets with them. It was so utterly unwarranted & undeserved. It would take an ungraspably darkened heart&mind to walk

through this crowd--with its many children and palpable joy-- and carry through with an intent to grievously harm. I pray that whatever wounds and mental traps might fester such an intent be healed wherever else they may be incubating. That we as a people are able to heal the rifts-both within & without our boundaries-- that cloud our common humanity and spring the illusory traps of justied malfeasance. We can start again right here. We can follow the lead of our tough-skinned and bighearted City on the Hill. City of the Commonwealth. May we renew rather than recoil. May we become more---more inclusive, more brave, more open--rather than less. And if we become less, let it be less guarded, less polarized, less afraid. May our experience of the common extend ever broader, ever deeper, ever more open. Lets not go down the road of violent reaction. Lets not fall into more traps of collateral harm, short-sightedly justied in justices pursuit. As we have witnessed since 9-11, vengeance only begets more violence, as even this tragedy may have been begotten. Nothing neutralizes fear like the fearlessness of an open Heart. As Boston has shown us, it is the giving, not the guarding, that denes the brave. A very deep bow goes out to this city. City upon the Hill. City of the Commonwealth. A common wealth, a common well being. A very deep bow goes out to the people, those harmed and those of help. May the unfathomably subtle and pervasive hands of Grace redeem the suffering and tender the trauma. I trust that the impulse which prompted the bystanders rush right back into harms way is alive, well, and with us. We are each other in that moment, as the boundaries between ones safety and anothers peril are erased. A common humanity. A common wealth. A common well being. Boston has taught me this: It is in the unconditional common that we nd our Core. May we be made better by this.

--Jacob Wienges 4/17