Some have welcomed the resurgence of video, interviews, audio files and previously untold stories.
I am among the ones who have avoided it as much as possible. Until Friday, I purposely changed the channel and the subject matter when I saw or heard anything relating to the horror and the panic that seeped into my dorm room on that September morning.
My heart still breaks for the thousands of lives lost, and the millions more who were forever changed. Like a stack of dominoes, we will never fully understand the ramifications of that day.
What few people know is that my father, a commercial airline pilot at the time, was working at the exact time the South tower was struck. He was in the air when the North Tower struck, still flying his 737 through the Midwest when we got word of the Pentagon, and then of United Flight 11. For five hours, thirty-seven minutes our family did not know if he was next. We sat silent, separated by state lines, frantically calling his employer, the FAA and each other. I wouldn't allow myself to think the worst, but my mind reeled. When we received word that every plane in the U.S. was being grounded, I took a breath. When he was able to find a working phone 17 hours later I cried. And cried. And cried.
My heart is still broken from that day. As the rest of the country, those images are still raw. I still teeter between intense pride and intense anger. I have no clue how one could process the events of that day as an unbeliever. I just don't. I thank God for this country. I thank Him for His divine plan- a plan we do not know. I thank Him for the heroes. I thank Him for everything that day has taught me, has taught us.
May we never forget...
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