SALT LAKE CITY — Saturday morning, I participated in the Team Red, White and Blue Flag Relay in the Salt Lake Marathon. Team RWB runs the relay, which covers the marathon course, to honor those who’ve served our country and our community while reminding us all to appreciate the sacrifice of others.
Each runner is asked to run and carry the relay flag in memory of or honoring someone else, and I chose Unified police officer Doug Barney. With the help of my friend and colleague Debbie Dujanovic and her husband, Chris Bertram, the retired UPD chief of Holladay, we were joined at mile 19 by Doug’s only son — Jacob “Jack” Barney. The plan was for 13-year-old Jack to run the mile of the race dedicated to his dad.
But as most runners realize, things rarely go as planned. As I struggled with how to put Saturday’s experience into words, I decided, instead, I needed to write a thank-you note to one of my new heroes.
Dear Jack,
I wanted to thank you for being willing to get up early on a Saturday morning to hang out with some people you’d never met. I also appreciate how welcoming you were to my friend Lota Ward, who had planned to run the half marathon with his father that day. Unfortunately Keith Ward had an unexpected work commitment, so Lota decided to join Team RWB’s relay.
I thought it was sort of a beautiful cosmic coincidence that both of you were running for your fathers. I was only expecting to walk a mile with you as you were wearing jeans and someone warned me you may not be up to running because of asthma.
But when our turn came, Lota, who was running his second race after a fifth brain surgery in November, took the relay flag and you took the fallen officer flag and the two of you led the team from the aid station at an impressive pace.
We headed uphill and into a pretty fierce headwind, but both of you held those flags high. It took everything I had to sprint ahead for a picture or two. Seeing you and Lota leading that group was both heartbreaking and uplifting.
See, I understand a little bit about the worry and fear the families of officers learn to live with because my dad and sister are retired Alaska state troopers. A couple of years ago, I was talking to my sister on the phone about all the ordinary problems of our lives when she abruptly said she had to go make an arrest and hung up. In the hours that followed that conversation, I struggled mightily with fear. I kept replaying the conversation, trying to remember where she said she was, what the warrant was for, and whether there were any other officers with her.
Worry consumed me, but I didn’t want to call and distract her. She might have been a bossy lady with a gun to everyone else, but she was my little sister. She’s always been much kinder and more fearless than me, even though I’m 16 months older. When we were small, I didn’t dare go outside without her. When someone was mean to me, I sought the protection of my sister.
As adults, we would talk about her cases, the tragedies she dealt with, the parents who’d lost children, the men who abused women. She was a ferocious advocate of those who couldn’t defend themselves. From what I’ve been told about your dad, he was much the same.
What happened to your dad on Jan. 17th has haunted me. It is a strange thing to worry about people that you do not know, to feel heartbroken for them, to pray for them. So when Debbie told me you’d be joining us, I was grateful in a way that probably seemed strange to a teenager.
I thought that running for your dad was a kind gesture. But, as it turns out, you were the one who offered me a lesson in grace and gratitude.
The enthusiasm with which you thanked every police officer we passed, while Lota thanked every veteran he met, moved me to tears more than once. It is such a small thing — to say thank you — but it changes everything to feel appreciated.
Running with you and Lota was a delight.
First, the sheer joy with which you embraced the challenge of running with the flag was remarkable. Both of you chatted with the adults in the group, and I couldn’t stop smiling as I overheard you asking other runners if they were doing OK.
Both of you embraced the Team RWB rule of staying together as a team, and neither of you complained about anything.
As I pointed out that we’d finished a mile, you simply kept running. At one point, I told you that you were close to finishing a 5K (3.1 miles), and you seemed unimpressed, asking me how many miles until the end.
You stayed at the front of the pack, holding that blue flag with a black stripe high, engaging in easy conversation with the adults who ran by your side. When they offered you encouragement, you offered it right back. You checked often on Debbie and Chris, who didn’t plan to run a 10K that morning.
I remember telling Debbie that I thought you were going to run all the way to the finish. But 6.2 miles was so much farther than anyone thought you were capable of running.
Both of you boys have had to deal with the kind of loss and heartbreak that changes people, and not always for the better. Maybe the most beautiful aspect of spending time with the two of you Saturday morning is realizing that while pain will alter our lives, it doesn’t have to destroy or define us.
As I looked at the pictures of you finishing alongside Team RWB’s John Atamanczyk, who is a veteran of Vietnam and the Persian Gulf War, I was overwhelmed with a mix of emotions that ranged from hope to sadness to the purest kind of happiness.
I pray you will feel the love and strength of those who appreciate the sacrifice your father made for the rest of your days on this earth. I hope you continue to live a life free of fear or resentment. And I hope you are always able to bring the world the kind of unfettered joy with which you ran 6.2 miles.
I know there will be days when the ache for your father will feel like it might swallow you whole. And it is on those days that I pray you will remember how you honored your dad in a joyful, beautiful way that no one expected.
Thank you for showing us how to honor those who serve and those who sacrifice. Thank you for reminding us that life is not a grind from which we have to escape, but a beautiful gift that is best cherished when shared with others.
Please accept my deepest gratitude for the generous sacrifice of the entire Barney family, and thank you for some of the most joyful miles I’ve been blessed to run.
Email: adonaldson@deseretnews.com
Twitter: adonsports