Sunday morning at 8am was a chilled but partly-sunny morning that found me in my picnic chair. I was sitting near the dugout on a baseball field in which my son’s baseball team would be playing that morning, listening to the carefree chatter of nine-year old boys while sipping from my thermal carafe of hot coffee. As the team was warming up with their coaches I began to read a book recently loaded to my Kindle that has long been on my list: Man’s Search for Meaning by Viktor Frankl. Already I have determined that I need to purchase a print version because there is much to highlight from the text and I’m just not that good at doing so with a Kindle.
We have come to know Man as he really is. After all, man is that being who invented the gas chambers of Auschwitz; however, he is also that being who entered those gas chambers upright, with the Lord’s Prayer or the Shema Yisrael on his lips. – from the Preface to the 1992 edition of Man’s Search for Meaning, by Viktor Frankl
After yesterday’s events in Boston and having seen the carnage in photographs that I want desperately to forget, I read of 8-year old Martin Richard. Martin was killed after he had hugged his dad at the finish line and then turned to rejoin his mother and two of his siblings. Martin was a member of the Savin Hill Little League baseball team. Nevermore will he idly chatter with teammates in the dew-covered grass while having a catch.
My heavy thoughts are with Martin and all of the others killed or maimed by this senseless act of evil. So too are they with those responders, both professional and civilian, who rushed in to help instead of running away. They who entered into the madness: upright.