(2 minutes, 49 seconds)

Before my utterly botched hip replacement, I was a runner. For many years, I had dreamed of running in the Boston Marathon. In order to be given the privilege of an entry ticket into this prestigious race, athletes must first prove themselves elite enough runners by qualifying: running a prior marathon at a fast enough pace.

Boston Qualifying, or “BQ,” became my athletic theme and, in the realm of athleticism, my driving motivation for training for over two years. “BQ” was written on my bathroom mirror, posted on my car visor, and taped to the top of my treadmill. I got up early and worked passionately toward qualifying for this race, training month after month.

My incredibly supportive family was the wind beneath my wings. My mission was clear, and wrapped around my wrist (above picture) I had written, down to the minute, how fast I had to run each mile of the 26.2-mile race to qualify for Boston. On target with my training and speed, I was hopeful and downright optimistic about seeing my dream come true of qualifying to race this notorious course. I trained hard to qualify for the April 15, 2013 Boston Marathon. The now-infamous marathon was exactly ten years ago this week.

I was deeply disappointed that I didn’t run fast enough in my qualifying marathon to earn a slot in the Boston Marathon. I could blame my slower-than-expected race on the heat that day, the hamstring injury I was nursing, or the surreal and epic couple of days I had spent in the hospital three weeks before the race. The truth is, it was God’s tender mercy over my life that I didn’t qualify for the 2013 Boston Marathon.

Ten years ago, on April 15, 2013, at 2:49 pm near the Boston Marathon finish line, two homemade bombs exploded, firing shrapnel into the crowds that tragically killed three and injured more than 270 others, with many losing their limbs.

I watched horrified as the pictures, videos, and the unfolding story began to dominate live news coverage that fateful day. It was all so unthinkable that something like that was happening. It was dreadful to see the terrified people and mass confusion at the finish line of this race. I was glued to my computer as heart-wrenching details unfolded.

Chill bumps raised on my arms and legs as I calculated my average marathon finish time against the Boston marathon bombing time…I would have likely crossed the finish line precisely one minute before the explosion.
And my family? My husband, wearing his brown “My Wife Rocks” t-shirt that he wore to every one of my races and my kids with their colorful posters created with love and markers, most definitely would have been waiting for me at the finish line where they always were to greet me and celebrate my accomplishment enthusiastically.

I began to shake uncontrollably. Then I began to weep. I was overcome with the awareness of the complete mercy of sovereign God over my undeserving life.

As tidal waves of grief and sorrow knocked me to the floor, I asked myself, “Why do I doubt God’s goodness?” Tears continued to fall. “How can I doubt His directing of my path?” My head hung low in humble and profound gratitude. “Why is He so patient when I throw fits over not getting my way?”

I remember well that early afternoon exactly ten years ago, crumpled on the floor dressed in a tear-soaked shirt. An awe of God and His high and holy ways washed over me. That day I understood, more tangibly than ever before, the depth and breadth of the love of God in Christ Jesus for me.

Gentle Reader, there is mercy in every “No” of God. There is mercy in God’s “Yes,” and also when God says, “Wait.”

The One who holds all is sovereign over all. The first time God introduced Himself in Exodus 34, He says He is the God Who is abundant in mercy. He never runs low, and He never runs out of mercy, no matter what His answer is.