The verdict in the Boston Marathon Bombing was rendered today.

I wonder why we put such events in capital letters. Does it help us learn from them? Or does it just amplify their awful glory? (If I were still a reporter, I’d explore that question.)

I wonder if a jury verdict really resolves anything, for anyone – the accused, the victims, the aggrieved. Does it provide what modern society calls “closure?” Does it mete out whatever it is we think of as justice? Or is it more about revenge? (I’d explore those questions, too, without any expectation of a definitive answer, but hoping the questions would prompt deeper thinking, and maybe better answers for the future. I hold on to a shred of idealism that way.)

But tonight I’m thinking of the late Monday afternoon almost two years ago, just a few hours after the bombings. I was rushing to my writing class at the Missouri School of Journalism. A young man followed – chased – me down the hall. I had met him briefly once or twice, but didn’t really know him. He was one of those hungry kids we call the “gym rats” (always in the newsroom, bless their hearts) and likely had been among the vast sea of Baby Js who endured guest lectures I give on deadline reporting, parachute journalism, intimacy interviewing, source relationships or many of the other things we do that the public doesn’t seem to understand. During those guest lectures, I no doubt told some stories from my own career. Theory grounded in practice. The Missouri Method. Every good journalist’s method. I believe in that.

I turned at the top of the stairs.

“What is it?” I asked.

He mumbled and stumbled. He was obviously desperate to talk, but shaking. Visibly shaking.

“What is it?” I repeated.

He said he was assigned to help with the Boston bombing coverage, trying to find and interview anyone local who had been there. He was going down a list of Missouri residents who were registered to run in the marathon, calling relatives to see if they were accounted for. And, as I said, he was visibly shaking.

“I’m just wondering…” he mumbled. “Well, I’ve never done anything like this before. And I know you’ve done lots of hard stories. And I was just wondering…”

He faltered.

“Yes?” I asked. “What?”

Then he blurted out: “How do you do this?”

His question stopped me, in its honesty and its innocence.

How do we do this?

Damn good question.

I took a deep breath, then told him to take a deep breath of his own. I suggested that he wasn’t going to make things any worse than they already were. I told him to focus on the task at hand. Remain professional and respectful. Trust that providing verified information was vitally important at times like this. Understand if people don’t want to talk, but be ready to listen if they do. Remember, above all, that’s it’s not about you – but about them. And remember to breathe.

He went back to the newsroom. I went on to my class.

But I haven’t forgotten that conversation. Because I was shaking that Monday, too. And on too many other days when I have, as a reporter or an editor, covered the car crash or the plane crash or the laborer who lost his job or the parents who lost their child.

It’s just that after 30-some years in the field, I keep my shaking on the inside.

And what I really wanted to say to that young man on that Monday afternoon was this:

“How do I do this work? I wish I didn’t have to. I wish no one ever had to.”

But the thing is, we do.

Someone has to track down information to make sure it’s right, even if it’s painful. Someone has to embed in a combat zone to let us know the real cost of war. Someone has to challenge authority and hold power accountable and listen to the victims and hold the hand of the dying. To remind us that traffic fatalities are not everyday news briefs but life-changing events for those left behind. To be present and bear witness and listen when people are ready to talk.

We need to take deep breaths.

Then do the job. A hard, unfortunate but necessary job.