after the fact

For twelve years, I wrote somewhere - in a journal or a note on Facebook or here - about 9/11, on 9/11. This year I did not. Not for any reason other than I didn't. I spent the day at work, doing what I (try to) do. I had a falling apart layer in the day that was painful, but necessary for some "stuff" I am working through, but even that had nothing to do with not writing.

Yesterday, a friend handed me a children's book. "Read this," she said. September 12: We knew everything would be all right. "Your everything will be all right," she told me as she hugged me. The book was written and illustrated by first grade students in Missouri, and was first printed in July 2002. It's adorable, but the book itself is not the point.

Before that day thirteen years ago, I had seen God at work in many ways, in many places, and I had thanked Him. From time to time I asked Him for stuff. Before that day, I had apprehension that kept me from being completely whole, and I knew it, but it was (in my mind) no big deal, just shyness or something like it. Before that day, I had never learned to lean on God, to ask for Him to be my strength, for Him to hold me, for Him to guide me.

On that day, once my family was all home, safe and under one roof, sleeping in their own beds, the bottom fell out of my heart. I dreamt each night of police coming to the door in the middle of the night for various reasons, alarms sounding in the distance warning of some threat, lights flashing outside my window. The fear that enveloped me was so intense, so complete, I had difficulty functioning. I found myself staring at the sky, not having realized how accustomed to the flight patterns over my house I had become. Although the quiet was something I would normally have relished, the empty skies became a roaring silence in my ears. I cried and trembled every morning when I awoke, tearing myself from my pillow only because our youngest son slept in a crib and could not get out himself.

I can't tell you how long this went on. I do know that the day it began to change was laundry day, and a beautiful, sunny and warm one at that. I was on the phone with my friend, Aunt B, one of the few people I'd told of my pain, my sorrow, my fear. She told me she had been repeating constantly the words "Thy will be done." She encouraged me to pray - something that had truly not occurred to me. I went outside with my basket of clean clothes and screamed it at the sky. Every time I went outside, I said it - softly under my breath, in my head, screamed at the top of my lungs, silently in my heart - until I could bring myself to say it upon waking.

Fitful sleep, terrible dreams, time to rise, "Thy will be done," tears and fear. Repeat.

Until the morning I woke, once again with tears on my cheeks, and heard the voice of God. A song I knew well rang in my ears and I felt the presence of one who meant the words completely: Be not afraid. I go before you always. Come, follow me, and I will give you rest. (from Isaiah) For the first time since that fateful Tuesday, I felt comfort, peace, gratitude for the dawn of day. And the strength to move forward, to take each day, each step, each challenge as it came. The dreams stopped. The sun felt warm, the rain refreshed, the cries of the baby filled me with love for life and a desire to be.

I knew everything would be all right. Not perfect in my eyes, not what I might like or want or wish for, but right. I learned to seek with all my heart. A lesson I still struggle with, but that's another story for another time.

Jeremiah 29, especially v13 & 14.

to remember always

For the first time since 9/11, I had to work an 8 hour day on this date. In some ways, I was glad for the distraction; but I also feel pretty conflicted about that. If you scroll back through my blogs, you will find other 9/11 posts, and you will see that I, like many, deeply believe that sharing stories, thoughts, feelings, and emotions from that day in 2001, and the days and weeks, even months afterward is not only helpful for healing, but imperative for honoring and remembering the heros, the victims, their families and their friends. One of my dearest friends approached me last year with an idea for compiling such stories, so that we can continue to teach our children about the many facets of 9/11/01 and the attacks on the United States. Throughout the day today, as she could muster the strength and the words, she posted her story of that day. With her permission, and with only very minor editing, those posts follow, along with a comment from a friend of hers. Never, never can we forget.

Allie's story:

I am reflecting on my thoughts and emotions on this day, 12 years ago. Getting ready to attend a military funeral for Uncle Dick Mancuso (love that man!). As the day unfolded, the uncertainty, the disbelief, the absolute inability to wrap my brain around it. The color guard and playing of Taps at the burial, everyone in tears, both for Uncle Dick, and for our nation. We need to share these thoughts and emotions with our children. If we do not learn from history, we are doomed to repeat it. Every year, I have a conversation with them, trying to put into words the overwhelming loss of life and security that day, and many more days to come. Never take our freedom for granted, Never fail to whole-heartedly thank a service member, Never become complacent in your patriotism.......NEVER - EVER FORGET!
 

 8:46am, 9/11/01,

Reports on the radio that a small plane apparently ran into the World Trade Center....thinking, Wow, how in the world does that happen?

Go on with prep work at the restaurant, getting ready to leave at 10:00am to join family for Uncle Dick's funeral.......

9:03am, 9/11/01

 Barry, Jr. comes running into the kitchen yelling "we are being attacked, it’s terrorist!!" By that time, news crews on the scene and captured the second plane hitting WTC....."what???? Oh My God! Wait, What???? Was that just a person falling from the building? Oh My God!!!"

We are now all glued to the TV, tears falling down my face, mouths hanging open........

9:37am, 9/11/01
 Reports that a plane has hit the Pentagon, the belief that multiple planes are now "missing", speculation they could be headed for the Capital, the west coast, military bases, etc...all flights ordered to land, no take-offs....."Oh My God, this seriously cannot be happening.....it has to end, right????? Thank God Anthony did not go to school (K) today, everyone is at home getting ready for the funeral......"

9:59am, 9/11/01

 Tower Collapses!!! "Oh My God......do you know how many people work in those buildings???? Thousands!!! Oh My God!!! I have to get home....."

10:03am, 9/11/01

 Reports of a plane crashing in PA..possibly on course for DC ...."Where is Shanksville???? Still multiple planes missing... what is next? Driving home now, have to get to the rest of my family.....I get home, they have no TV on, no radio, they are trying to hold everything together for the funeral....I say, do you know what is happening, that we are under attack??? They have no clue, and tell me they do not want to know.....WHAT???? YOU NEED TO KNOW!!! I tell them some of it, have no idea what they hear......everyone is getting ready to leave for the funeral.....

10:28AM, 9/11/01

 Second Tower has collapsed.....driving to funeral home in Linglestown, [PA] with Aunt Patty, listening to the radio.....planes still missing, all military bases are on high alert......we have to go to Indiantown Gap after the funeral home for burial. How will that work? Will they allow us to proceed with our plans? PRAY, PRAY, PRAY.....Thank God my family is all together and not spread out.....together is the best case scenario....I get a call from Uncle Dick's stepson (whom I have never met or spoken to), who is travelling from DC up for the funeral.....Of course he is running late......he just drove by the pentagon on the highway, there were flames and smoke......traffic is at a standstill....he is continuing on and promised to keep me posted...."

10:50ish, 9/11/01

 Walking into funeral home, experiencing the "normal" emotions of attending a loved one’s funeral, keeping an eye on my little ones, making sure they are handling this new experience okay, heart is racing from anxiety. Wondering what else is happening while I am not in front of the TV or a radio.......take a deep breath......take care of your family......Pray....

11:40ish, 9/11/01

 Leaving funeral home, beautiful tribute to the life of Uncle Dick.....kids are holding up like troopers....get into car, listening to the radio.....not much has changed, multiple planes still missing, military bases on high alert.....call Uncle Dick's stepson, he is finally making good time and looks like he will be able to make it to Indiantown Gap on time for the burial.....we share what news we have heard.....express our shock and disbelief.....try to comfort each other. Will we be safe at Indiantown Gap? Of course we will; the Gap is very, very small compared to other possible "targets".....or will we? Why am I being arrogant in thinking that nothing this horrific could possibly happen to my family? What makes us so special? No one else woke up today thinking "I am a target"...... The overwhelming knowledge takes over all of my thoughts....At least we will all be together if something should happen......I have Doug; Anthony and Danielle have their Mommy and Daddy.....

12:30ish, 9/11/01

 Standing at the gravesite, Indiantown Gap, full color guard in place.....flag is folded and presented.....The color guard leader shared with us the following: "Please rest assured, we will never forget your loved one because we were chosen to honor our fellow serviceman on this of all days. This day will forever be imprinted in our hearts and minds." Taps playing in the distance......not a dry eye anywhere, including the guard......Many thoughts racing through my mind, many prayers passing through my soul.....Rest In Peace, Uncle Dick....you are truly loved.....

3:30ish, 9/11/01

 Had to go back to work, all of my family and friend stayed at my house to continue the celebration of Uncle Dick's life.....the restaurant is dead, everyone that does come in, wants to sit near the TV, this has been a very long, emotional, nerve wracking day, to say the least. I go home, hug and kiss everyone in sight and try to get some sleep. God Bless Us, America!

9/12/01

 The lack of background noise from airplanes is deafening......the next few days are full of fear, uncertainty, thinking everything around you looks suspicious.....go to work, go to school and pray....The days are oddly filled with hope, also. The passengers on Flight 93 have proven to be real life heroes.....They acted on instinct and put everyone else in the country ahead of themselves.....would I ever be able to demonstrate such strength? Messages left to loved ones, saved and cherished forever.

 I distinctly remember the day I heard the first airplane fly overhead, it stopped me in my tracks, I watched its progress and wondered where it was going, and who were all of those brave people on board.....

 

Jill’s story:

Middletown [PA] was never so quiet and living next door to the airport*, I can say that's the God's honest truth. The worst was going into work that night for UPS at the airport and everyone just walking around, wondering what to do...our plane couldn't go anywhere. A bunch of us went out on the ramp and just stared up into the night sky and watched a pair of F-16 fighters pass above us with the plumes of steam from TMI in the background...yeah we had to worry about that, too...totally surreal and unforgettable. A couple days later when things got back to "normal", a trade show container came through our facility addressed to WTC # 2; I called our supervisor over and just looked at him and said, "what do we do with this???" He looked at me, shook his head and softly said, "send it back..."

*Harrisburg International

not the usual day

Eleven years ago today, I dropped Jonathan off at school, dropped Drew off at nursery school, and went home to put Joseph down for a nap and hang out with Henry until pick-up and lunch, then Kindergarten for Henry and another nap for Joseph. Another hectic, yet typical day. It was a beautiful fall day--a day much like today; another Tuesday.

As I usually did when I got back after our walk around down dropping off siblings, I called Guy at work to say hello. He told me a plane had flown into a building in New York, and I remember saying that hadn't happened in a long time, thinking it was a small, personal plane. He kept saying it's such a mess, and I remember visualizing what a mess it would be to have an office window broken in and wind blowing papers and things all around while a bi-plane like Snoopy's sat in the middle of the office.

Finally, Guy convinced me to turn on the TV and see for myself. That was just as they showed the second plane hit. I sat down. I said, "Oh, my God." I said something like, "What the hell is going on?" I was too stunned to cry, to yell, to react at all. And I was some 175 miles away. At some point I started to think of all the people in the city on any given day, and when I began to get overwhelmed, I told Guy to get back to work while I tried to occupy Henry for a few minutes.

Before long, I was on the phone with my sister in Atlanta. We talked and watched together, wondering what would happen next. I remember two things distinctly from that phone call. The first: when I expressed relief that my brother-in-law was stationed in Montana, and not at someplace that seemed a "high target" area, she mentioned that he was probably guarding missile silos. "What other reason is there to have a base in the middle of nowhere?" My heart stopped. The second: at some point, she said that if she were to decide to create widespread panic, Atlanta would be a likely target--both of us were watching CNN, based in Atlanta. "What would cause more panic than not being able to see what's happening anywhere in the world?" I got off the phone with her, wondering when I would get to speak to her again, only because it was time to pick Drew up.

By then it seemed that planes would be going down all day. The nursery school teachers had no idea what was going on--only that something unimaginably bad was happening. The lead teacher in Drew's class came out to find out how all of us were doing, and if anyone needed help with the kids, an extra prayer, if anyone needed to share anything in the dim sanctuary of the hallway. We all expressed our disbelief, our shock, our collective fear.

Later that day, I remember thinking that I felt very similar to the day of the Oklahoma City bombing. That day, I had only Jonathan, a baby, and I scooped him out of his crib and held him for the rest of his nap, the rest of the day until Guy got home. That day, all I could think of were those children in the daycare center downstairs in Oklahoma. On September 11, 2001, all I could think of were those parents in the towers, and the children left at home.

Filling out the calendar for school this year, I noticed that September 11 would fall on a Tuesday again. I wondered if it would be harder, being the same day. Occasionally, I would think that it was coming up, and, knowing myself, I figured it would affect me more than usual, being a Tuesday. And this morning when I woke up, I did remember. But it wasn't until I heard Denny and Sue on the radio, and Denny mentioned that the forecast looked to be the same day as 2001 that it hit me--all the memories came flooding back. Memories from that day, and the days, weeks and months that followed.

No planes flying overhead. The silence. The Middle Eastern mother at Jonathan's school who stopped wearing her robes and headscarf to drop off an pick up her child. The panic I felt every morning. How I wished Guy did not have to leave the house every day. How I wished I had somewhere to go, like he did. My amazement that anyone could act normally. The voice telling me, "Be not afraid." The calm that followed. "Thy will be done." Suddenly remembering a friend who could have been there, and the related need to find out. (None of them had been.) My brother telling me about visiting New York for work because no one else would take the territory, and his visits to stores and a fire department. Starting to feel normal again.

Needing, wanting to hear others' stories, memories, reflections.....my friend's twin daughters seeing themselves as related to the twin towers as they grew up; a stranger on a ferry telling me about the changes she had seen; dear friends who knew someone; 102 Minutes.

Today's flag at half staff.

Never Forget.

Ever.

the story I knew about

One of Guy's aunts used to live on Long Island, and when Joseph was about 2, we went to visit. Their home was our base for a long weekend in New York. We had a wonderful time visiting with them, touring Yankee stadium, riding the subway trains, and enjoying a free performing arts festival at Lincoln Center. But there was one thing that made the trip truly unforgettable and different from any other trip I've made to the City.

One of the things I insisted on was to take the Staten Island Ferry and see Battery Park. On our last day, we left early, drove all the way around to Staten Island and rode in on the water. We did some of the usual park things: watched performers, had a 'name' painted by a street artist, perused the merchandise. Then we walked up to Ground Zero.

As we approached, there was still a silence, a reverence in the area; memorial flowers, notes and ribbons fluttered in the fence. At first, we were a little surprised that the fence was so high and the portholes through it so few, but the closer we got, the harder it was to focus through our tears, through the collective conscienceness' pain that still hung in the air. It was more than a little disconcerting to see the mess, the rubble and cracked pavement that could still be seen; and yet a little church across the street was unscathed. We were a somewhat somber group heading back to the ferry to go home. It's hard to be lost in thought for long with a toddler and 3 other young children while visiting an unfamiliar city, though.

Back on the Ferry, I sat on a bench and watched Guy with the boys, lifting them one at a time to the rail to get a better look, and eventually putting Joseph on his shoulders. I tried not to be too nervous about the whole scene before me, since I was tired and glad for the break. A woman sitting next to me asked if they were all mine. "All five," I answered, with a smile, and that warm feeling of mingled pride and admiration at our family. "It's so nice to see families come to the City again," she remarked. Until that point, I had not even considered that she was from the area.

Raised in Upstate New York, I had always heard adjectives ranging from "standoffish and aloof" to "downright unfriendly" used to describe New Yorkers (what we called those from the City). Living in Rhode Island, I had learned that city folks could be a bit bristly, but, in all reality, the city people I'd been in contact with were simply people--busy people with someplace to go all the time, but people nonetheless. This woman was striking up a conversation with me, a total stranger--and obviously an out-of-towner at that. I turned my head to look at her and asked, "Have there been fewer visitors?" In reality, life in Pennsylvania had gone on since September 11th; tourism was moderately affected locally.

She told me that people had started to come back, but for a while--a long while--there were far fewer tourists. Something she noticed particularly on the Ferry. Then she told me about that day. She told me about the boats--hundreds of them--ferrying people from Manhattan to the shores of Staten Island. She told me about thousands of people, dusty, dirty, dazed, in shock, streaming off the boats. For hours. She told me, too, about the Staten Islanders greeting them all.

That was the part of the story that got to me. The part that made me proud to be listening to this woman I sat next to by chance. The part that made me feel an unexplained kinship to her. She told me that the citizens of Staten Island--at the docks at first to get a glimpse of what atrocities had happened across the harbor, like any red-blooded American rubbernecker--became the greeters. Like the Maine Troop Greeters of Bangor, ME, the members of this community gathered at the terminal with blankets, soup, coffee, fresh water, and, most importantly, open arms, shoulders to lean on, and a willingness to listen, to comfort, to cry. And they kept it up for the entire evacuation. Afterwards, many of the shopkeepers and innkeepers on the island offered rooms and goods to the people who didn't know where to go, or who couldn't get home. The Staten Islanders opened more than their arms that day; they opened their hearts wide. They made a difference. They did what needed to be done, without even thinking about how hard it might be, how dangerous, how frightening. They opened themselves, and they grew as a consequence.

I asked the woman if the tone in New York and on Staten Island had changed. She told me that there was a new respect for survival; a new feeling of oneness, if not family. She said there was obviously more generosity of spirit, and more willingness to make eye contact with strangers, and not the suspicious stare-down familiar on TV and in the movies. She said the City had become friendlier, more open, more inviting, without losing its identity. This was what she found most telling. The ability to learn something fundamental about the very depths of your being and still manage to stay who you are impressed her....and me. New York was still New York, only more so. What also impressed me was how humble she was. According to Boatlift, a film short chronicling the rescue efforts, half a million people were ferried off Manhattan island to various locations nearby. A half a million people. The woman had told me that they did what they should; nothing more and certainly nothing less.

As for myself, I was changed by the encounter. We exchanged nothing but some conversation. I don't know her name, and I cannot remember anything at all about what she looked like or her voice. Only her words, and the intense feelings behind them. At the beginning of the Boatlift film, there is a quote: "A hero is a man who does what he can." (Romain Rolland). When I shared the video on my Facebook page, I said that "This is what Character looks like." Riding on that Ferry, out of earshot of my family, a Hero spoke to me. A real Character. And I am all the better for it.

never forget; ever

September 11. 9/11. However you say it, the memories and emotions come with the same intensity. A single day, but one that impacted even those who like to think it didn't.

That day, 10 years ago, was a beautiful, clear early autumn Tuesday. We walked Jonathan to school, then dropped Drew at preschool, having no idea that in that time, the world had changed. I remember that when I got home, I called Guy at work and he told me that someone flew into a building in Manhattan. I figured small, single engine plane--barnstormer-type--muttered what an idiot the pilot had to be, and began to tell him about my morning with the boys, as usual. He insisted that I had to see what was going on, so I reluctantly turned on the TV. I was completely stunned by what I saw: smoke, clouds of dust, a gaping hole in a magnificent building--and then I saw the most horrible thing of all. As I watched, the second plane flew into the South Tower. 'Stunned' does not even begin to describe how I felt. The wind had been knocked out of me; the very life force. I believe strongly in the collective conscience of mankind, and it was fractured beyond measure. I felt emptiness, deep to the bottom of my soul, along with dread and terror. Clearly, this was the intended reaction.

I stayed on the phone with Guy for a time, but with the announcement that another plane--Flight 93--was off course, I couldn't stay on the phone with him. Shortly thereafter, I was on the phone again with my sister in Atlanta, who very plainly stated that this could very well be our last conversation. What I hadn't thought about were possible targets. I was trapped in a "right now" cycle of thought--perhaps because my family was not securely together. Guy was at work, two boys were at two different schools, and I was at home with the other two. My thoughts had been tied to rounding everyone up when the right time came. Celeste pointed out that if the terrorists were wise, they would strike communications centers next--CNN, for example--in order to increase the feeling of panic: no news=fear of the unknown, a thought far more devastating at that moment than being able to see and hear what was going on in real time. She went on to say that the next targets would be military bases, such as the one in North Dakota where my brother-in-law was stationed.

My soul limped with me to preschool to collect Drew. The parents in the hall outside the classroom were all equally pained. Not one of us knew what to expect, how to cope, where to turn, but each of us knew that for our 3-year-olds, we needed to be strong and optimistic. The teachers had not been apprised of any details, just that there was something happening that would be difficult to face in the hours, days, months and years to follow.

I remember the silence in the days that followed. No planes in the air, only fear, grief, even faithlessness. I remember picking Jonathan up at school, and the pretty Muslim mother stopped wearing her veil, and I felt ashamed that she should be fearful of her own identity. And yet, I did not speak with her; did not introduce myself. I remember the tears that I cried every time I was alone from the boys--the boys for whom I tried to be a rock of safety in this storm of the unknown. I remember B telling me that she had been prescribed anti-depressants because she really could not cope with the events, the news, the silence in the air. She told me she didn't think they were strong enough; she needed more to find peace. Her mantra had become, "Thy will be done." I remember sobbing when I hung up the phone. I could not let go of my fear enough to have faith enough in anyone's will. Anyone at all, even God's.

I had trouble sleeping; had vivid nightmares wherein the fire department would knock on the door in the night to evacuate us, but had no answers as to where we should go. Just get out. Now. I had a constant need to know what everyone was doing and where they were at all times. I was going crazy. Each morning I woke and cried--hard--because I did not think I'd be able to cope, to pretend to my children that life was okay, that they were blessed, and safe, and that the bad guys behind the whole thing would be brought to justice. I wanted to be relieved of that duty, and that pressure.

One morning, after the planes were flying again, I woke to a voice in my mind and in my heart. It consumed me completely. "Be not afraid. I go before you ALWAYS." A song I learned as a child from the Folk Group at church, about the Beatitudes. A favorite song, actually, but I was not singing it, nor thinking about it. And it was spoken. I felt warm, held close, safe, and yet I said, "I AM afraid!" Again, the voice, calm and clear in the center of my being, "Be not afraid. I will give you rest."

I began to live again that day. My remembrance shifted from the pain and sorrow that bring fear to that which brings connectedness. While I was wrapped up in my own pain, I could not see that others felt what I was feeling; that others needed me as much as I needed them and still do. I've always admired firefighters, clergy, the military--people who choose to give their lives to someone or something greater than themselves, as literally as they give figuratively. I will never forget. Remembering is what makes us stronger. Remembering is what gives us the courage to build on what we know--about ourselves as individuals, as family, as a nation. I still weep. I won't stop. I'll fly my flag, I'll thank those who give of themselves, and I will move on.

September 11. 9/11. A single day. A lifetime.