Nine years ago today, I was sitting in our local library when I received a text message:
“Meg Menzies was just hit by a car while she was running. She died.” I didn’t know Meg. I was friends with her husband, Scott. I'd worked with him on different projects in his role as a local law enforcement officer. But I knew a lot of people who did know Meg. And with shattered hearts, they began telling stories about a woman who, to me, sounded quite ordinary. She loved God, she was loyal to her friends, she treasured her family - especially her three young children - and she had a passion for running. But as the stories continued, as one after another they continued to build on each other, I discovered something remarkable in her story. In a culture that wants to lure us away from the ordinary - from the sanctuary of God to busy cities that never sleep, from the quiet embrace of our children to the pursuit of fame and fortune, from a commitment to wellness to the endless chase of unhealthy pleasures - Meg was never lured away. Less than a week after her death, it became clear to me I wasn’t the only one who’d found extraordinary in her story. On January 19, 2014, the Saturday after Meg died, over 100,000 people from around the world responded to a social media request to “Run for Meg.” Complete strangers were so moved by Meg’s story that they grabbed their families and friends and hit the streets to run. Many did so for the first time, others for the first time in a long time. I was one of those first time in a long time runners. I ran eight miles that morning. It was the furthest I'd run in decades. I've been running ever since. It's funny, though, over the past nine years, I've begun running toward things instead of away from them. I've processed a lot of what I've hated about my past in a way that's left me with hope and love for the future. One thing I've learned is that the beauty in the process, the beauty in the finish line, is often found in the people who help you get there. Back in 2017, I was running toward the finish line of the Patrick Henry Half Marathon. The year before, I didn't make it there. The August heat derailed my day at mile 8. A few miles from the finish, two friends who came into my life after Meg died showed up to help me find my way to that finish line. One was Meg's mom Pam, the other was Solomon Whitfield. I don't think I would have finished my race that day if they hadn't showed up. Back in the summer of 2020, I was going through one of the harder seasons of my life. I was out driving in the middle of the sunny afternoon, but life felt like a thousand midnights. I somehow found myself sitting on a picnic table in my friend Pam's yard. I was telling her about the challenges I was facing in life. I told her, I know it's not like losing a daughter, but it's hard. Pam looked at me, without hesitation, and said grief is grief, Keith. And you are grieving. I knew I was sitting in the beauty of the ashes of Meg's death. They were hard ashes to sit in. It's hard to feel beauty at the expense of someone else's deepest pain. But it was a beauty I desperately needed in that moment. A beauty I will be forever grateful for. A few months later, I found myself sitting at an Olive Garden with my friend Solomon. Again, I was lost. And again, a friend was showing up near the finish line to help me find my way. I'm not sure I'd have found that finish line if he hadn't been there that day. I know a large part of my life has been spent being lured away. The kind of lured away that Meg never experienced. Many times the last several years, I have felt Meg luring me back. Back to me. I have felt that through her mom and through my friend Solomon and through countless other friends who would have never come into my life if Meg hadn't been taken from ours. Finding yourself is beautiful. Especially when you'd been as lost as I'd been for as long as I'd been lost. Saying that - knowing it cost someone you love one of the people she loves most - doesn't feel beautiful. But it is. I don't know why life works that way, where beauty is more likely to spring forth from ashes than it is from beauty. But that IS how life works. For nine years now countless of us have been sitting in the beauty of the ashes of Meg's death. They are hard ashes to sit in. It's hard to feel beauty at the expense of someone else's deepest pain. But it is a beauty we all so desperately need. We miss you Meg, but may we all live lives that nurture beauty in the world long after we're gone. May we all live lives that will forever make it easy for others to find the beauty in our ashes.
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Robert "Keith" CartwrightI am a friend of God, a dad, a runner who never wins, but is always searching for beauty in the race. Archives
February 2025
CategoriesAll Faith Fatherhood Life Mental Health Perserverance Running |