Today, runners — probably not just runners, but everyone who could muster a few steps — were asked to dedicate their miles to Meg. Meg is Meg Menzies, a Virginia avid runner and mother of three who was killed by a drunk driver on a morning run last week. At her memorial service on Saturday, a letter her husband had written to her was read out loud:
“Every time I lace up my running shoes,” he wrote, “it will be for you.”
Today, more than 70,000 people from all over the world had pledged to do the same, joining the Meg’s Miles page on Facebook.
Some, no doubt, were marathoners and serious, always-training-for-something runners. Others, I’ll take a guess, read about her, saw sidewalks outside and shoes in their closet, and felt compelled to combine the two.
I like to think something happened while we ran or walked or cycled or hopscotched in Meg’s memory.
Something small, maybe. Or something big. Just something that reminded us of life and its blessings — of how lucky, how blessed, how privileged we are to simply be able to move and to breathe. To have one more day, one more mile, one more minute, one more moment.
Mine happened at the spot I try to run by every day, the one on the north side of a park that signals the moment I knew my father had died.
When I reach it on my runs, I look to the sky and tell him that I love him and I miss him. I blow him a kiss, and wonder — sometimes out loud, sometimes in my heart — how I must look to Dad as he looks down at me from a totally different viewpoint, and guides my way. This morning, the sky was clear; the sky the same blue — well, to be quite honest — of his eyes. My dad’s eyes (this is true) changed colors (as my sister Jeanne’s do). They could look blue and then, even a split second or a day later, green.
I’m getting off track; my apologies. Today, against that clear, Dad-blue sky was one pale white streak — a cloud perhaps, or the visible swoosh from a plane I hadn’t seen. It didn’t mar the clearness of the sky; not at all. Instead, it was a divider, mysterious and mesmerizing, between what we think we know…and that about which we have no clue.
For for that line we straddle, for the steps we take, for whatever & every bit of time we have…The Grateful Runner says thank you.