Remembering September 11

It has been five years since the day hijackers crashed planes into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. Five years have passed, and yet I still remember as if it were yesterday the amazing blue sky and piercing rays of sun the morning of September 11. I remember the police yelling behind me and to my side to get out of the way. I remember the burning hole, growing larger, engulfing, and falling debris after the first plane hit, thinking I was standing in a war zone. I remember the arrival of fire trucks and my childlike hope that somehow the firemen on their ladders with their water hoses would squelch the fire. I remember the heap of ash and debris and the smell of soot in the air for months afterwards. I remember.

I am not speaking as someone who directly knew or lost a loved one in the World Trade Center that awful day. But, I do speak as someone who was there; someone who saw the fiery hole after the first Tower was hit; someone who shook with fear and anger in the days that followed. For me September 11 is a stark reminder of the very real presence of evil in this world, of the fragility of life, that we should take no day for granted. And, it is a lesson of sustaining faith and hope in the midst of tragedy, disaster, and injustice.

There’s so much to say about that day. Part of me deep down somehow believes that if I could only recreate this day in perfect detail, as if I were God, I could return this world to life as I previously knew it. And maybe that is why it has taken me so long to mark that day in words, because I know that once I do put the last word to paper, those men and women who lost someone in the Towers or the planes will go on missing their husbands, fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, brothers, sisters, wives, significant other, friends, and loved ones, and we will still turn on the news every morning to yet another story of suicide bombings.

What I stared in the face on September 11, 2001 was evil, plain and simple. But what was reinforced after this horrendous course of events was the exact opposite: love, hope, and a heavenly longing for a place where there will be no more tears, no more death and no more decay.

I miss New York every September. My heart aches as I think of friends. I remember the look on their faces, how we tried to encourage and support each other every step of the way. I remember the surreal feeling of downtown Manhattan. I remember reconnecting (after 8 years) with my old friend from high school Dan Burchill on a street corner in the high 20s on my walk north. I remember taking a ferry with Jackie later that day, bypassing a line of hundreds of people, and being hosed down by firemen and EMTs in Hoboken upon our arrival. I remember hug upon hug after we finally returned to work. I remember the warm embrace of the maintenance man from El Salvador. I remember meeting a young woman from Cantor Fitzgerald who called in sick to work that day (her offices were on the top floors); one of maybe two team members alive, she was searching for answers, struggling to make sense of her life. I remember and I hope.

From time to time I still wonder why I was there, up close. Why I saw the things I did. It has been five whole years since that day and we can’t turn back the clock. At times I am so very angry. There will be more Towers to fall in my life, in our lives. And, that is why I endeavor to set my mind and heart on what is eternal, that which will never perish or give way. This is the enduring lesson of September 11th.