The Morning of 9/11

Every generation of American fighting soldier is made by a moment in history that draws or drives us into war. For this American generation, a new fighting force was born out of what happened on the morning of September 11, 2001.

On that morning, I was the tired, bath-robed mother of a 6-year old and a 16-month old baby. It was a day like any other. I remember getting the same late start on the morning that I always got and catching news of the first plane while watching Matt Lauer and Katie Couric on NBC's Today Show. *What a terrible accident.* I puttered out to the kitchen over the cool saltillo tile and was at the sink when Husband alerted me to the news that would confirm the worst and change everything forever -- a second plane had hit the other tower.

From that moment, and for the rest of the week, night and day, I watched television. I must have fed my children too, but I don't really remember. I watched men and women in their business best covered in soot and ash and blood. They were sobbing, and if they weren't sobbing it was because they were bewildered -- literally. Surely nobody was strong enough to just be "cool" about what was happening to them.

Thousands upon thousands of New Yorkers were chased out onto the street to watch the hideous spectacle of two fires so high in the sky that there was really nothing that could be done.

They watched their anonymous neighbors jump and tumble to their deaths -- hand in hand sometimes -- rather than stand the excruciating heat. Isn't it odd to realize that there is no way to ever be sure which of the 3000 victims were driven to make that choice?

And then a third plane found its target at the Pentagon and an overwhelming sense of predator and prey settled into my bones.

It wasn't too long afterward that everything got worse. Matt Lauer caught sight of one of the towers falling. I remember he questioned aloud if part of the facade was falling off, but in reality the tower was imploding upon itself. Its twin would soon do the same. Now the people on the street were running for their lives.

It was incredible. It was unbelievable. As I watched the grey and black clouds of smoke rumble to life and chase people down and around corners through the streets of New York, I remembered back to a Rolling Stones video that I saw a decade earlier in which the band members tower over the tallest buildings of the city while they sing their latest hit. Isn't that strange?

I was awed at the capability of humans for such enormous destruction, and dumbstruck to know that all this was still. so. small. in His sight.

Up sprang dozens of bulletin boards on which thousands begged for someone to resurrect their loved one. So many posters and pictures of smiling faces with descriptions and phone numbers and pleas. Thousands and thousands of pictures. Too many to actually consider. If they were alive, they would come home -- that's all.

That evening, Fifi walked the 50 feet to our mailbox and placed in its flowerpot foundation a little flag given earlier in the summer by a realtor for promotion on the 4th of July. I don't know what she really understood, but it sparked in her a patriotism that continues to this day.

Many days later, I watched revival during the memorial service at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C. I thought I watched revival. I hoped it was revival. But the humbling has run its course; as a nation, we're mostly back to normal.

I remember that it took me almost a week to wrap my mind around what happened that day. Husband reminds me that in the earliest hours of the tragedy, I asked him, "What's wrong? You look as if you've been blown up?" I honestly, simply didn't "get it" that there were real people in those planes when they plowed into those buildings, and real people in those buildings when they toppled to the ground. Living, breathing, hurting, terrified people. It was Tuesday.

I think it was Friday night when I finally understood. Really understood. Understood it at my core. The kids were asleep, the work week was finished, and I was free to feel the fullness of it all for the first time. I fell into my husband's strong arms and sobbed. Just sobbed.

For days afterward, the skies above this country were quiet. Once they began to fly again, it was weeks before I could stand to watch a plane in flight. They looked like giant bullets to me. I couldn't look. I couldn't help but imagine every one aiming for a nearby structure. That seemed more plausible to me than a safe landing.

In the midst of the destruction, innocents died, others fought to the death and some gave themselves as heros. They were women and children; flight attendants and husbands and students; paramedics, chaplains, peace keepers and fire fighters. And now, they are joined in the aftermath of patriotic indignation by brave young Americans who have been equipped by God and man to face the terrible unknown with skill and courage and commitment. And many of them die too.

Today, I do remember, and I feel grateful for their protection. Thank you, Soldier. Thank you grieving Widow. I'm so sorry for your loss, Orphan. I can't imagine your heartache, Mother -- or Dad. What more can I do for you to honor their memory? The Lord bless you.

top picture used by copyright permission by Larry Towell
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