A Day We'll Never Forget

It was the most terrifying period of time in my life. Fifteen to twenty minutes of complete unknown. What had happened? How many were hurt? Was there more to come? One thing felt certain. My safety was at risk, possibly gone. With that realization I put my life in God’s hands and waited.

About twenty minutes prior, I had received a call from an employee. He was in the lobby of the Prudential building in Boston, our place of work. He had been told that no one was being allowed into the building and that he should evacuate. Unaware of any danger, I waited for an alarm to signal a fire emergency or a drill of some kind. Seconds later another employee called to ask if I had heard the bangs or felt the building shake. I hadn’t. He had.

I called building security and they informed me that they didn’t have any information and that I should wait to hear from police. Strange, I thought. I made my way over to the Boylston Street side of the building to check on the second employee. He pointed out to me, from the 9th floor window, where he had seen plumes of smoke emerge from the street level shortly after the booms. As it clicked that he was pointing at a heavily populated area near the finish line of the Boston Marathon, my heart sank. I immediately knew what had happened. I knew how many people were down there. I had been in that area to take in the festivities at about 1pm, less than two hours before.

With a knot in my stomach and a quickened heart rate, I went back to my computer and began to check news outlets, hoping that I wouldn’t find the terrible news I anticipated. There wasn’t any information right away, but searching the radio dial confirmed my fears. Two explosions.

A gruff voice came over the loudspeaker, “The Boston Police are advising that building occupants shelter in place as a result of criminal activity taking place on Boylston Street.” Bombs. My heart rate spiked, my stomach dropped. I quietly said a prayer and braced for whatever was next. I tried to occupy myself by continuing my daily routine but I couldn’t concentrate.

Someone nervously entered to ask if I had heard from my third employee. My heart dropped again. I had let her leave around 2pm to cheer on her daughter-in-law who was running in the marathon. I called her phone and received no answer. I sent her a text message asking to let us know that she was okay. No response.

The next hour was a whirl of phone calls and texts from people looking for information and confirmation of the safety of my staff and I. The voice over the loudspeaker would periodically repeat the same general message as before. No new information from him. Plenty from the radio. Plenty from the internet. None from the missing employee.

It’s tough to describe the pit that sits in your stomach in a time like this. Only on 9/11 have I felt anything close, but even then I was safely hundreds of miles away. On Monday, I was mere yards away (and up). Obviously it pales in comparison to those who were down on the street level of Boylston and those that were in the Twin Towers. Still, I have never truly feared as I did on Monday.

Good news finally came as we heard that our co-worker had posted on Facebook that she and her family were safe. Exactly three hours after the bombs erupted we were finally told we had been given the okay to vacate the building (utilizing a non-Boylston street exit). The radio news coverage had been reporting that public transportation was being amended and that certain streets were shut down. Speculation swirled in those hours and we were all obviously concerned that there could be more to come out there on the streets of Boston. The next trash can to explode could be the one on the way home.

As I walked out of the building, taking back streets and winding my way toward the closest operating T stop I observed the somber scene of the city. People were clearly rattled and looking for answers, but mostly looking for safety and the comfort of family. I made my way past the intersection of Mass Ave and Boylston Street, a route I normally take to work. Boylston Street had been cordoned off with police tape. Law enforcement officials of all kinds were standing ready.

I walked with a brisk pace away from the scene and headed towards Kenmore Station where I would normally catch a bus back home. Not thinking about anything but getting home safely, I turned left onto Commonwealth Avenue. The second to last turn of the marathon course. My phone buzzed and I looked down at the words of my girlfriend, “Just stay off of the marathon course, there could be more explosives.” “Definitely,” I assured her, not wanting to cause her any more worry (sorry Laura).

My pace further quickened and I couldn’t help but stare at every trash can and post office box that I passed. I was literally bracing for an explosion. Every major gathering point that I passed had a mass of uniformed officers patrolling. The entire walk people were wandering about, some clearly rattled and confused. Some clearly intoxicated from the earlier Patriot’s Day activities (for those of you not familiar with this Massachusetts holiday, the only morning game in baseball is played at Fenway Park and many people enjoy the day consuming copious amounts of beer). I couldn’t quite get a grip on whether these people were unafraid of the attacks, oblivious, or were just having a difficult time getting home.

When I did finally catch a train, walk the mile and a half from the closest open stop to my apartment, I took a deep breath and finally felt some semblance of safety. The news coverage was surreal. I walk those stretches of road so often. This actually happened and it happened where I live and work. I learned from the video footage and photographs on the TV screen that I had been standing right across from the sight of the second bombing only an hour and 50 minutes before the explosion shook that very ground.

I had never truly felt unsafe in the city of Boston. Never felt that fear was an emotion that could take over at any moment. I imagine that neither did any of those spectators and runners who were in danger. This account is not meant as a plea for an end to the evils that seem to be surfacing more and more frequently in our society. Not meant as a statement of concern over the level of safety in Boston. Evil exists and always has. I just mean to share my experience. I was scared, however I do not remain so. We as a people can’t afford to hold on to that fear or evil will prevail.

I have a new appreciation for my adopted home city, a new sense of pride in my fellow Bostonians. Pray for the victims and their families. For the recovery of those injured, both physically and mentally.

As the President said this morning, “If they sought to intimidate us, to terrorize us, it should be pretty clear by now that they picked the wrong city to do it. Not here in Boston.”