There is an anniversary this week that, for many, will pass just like any other day. After all, we have an entire generation of students in school – nearly everyone in school these days – who have no memory of 9/11. To them, it is an article in a history book, a few paragraphs tucked between the election of 2000 and another war overseas.
For others, however, it is an anniversary that commemorates a great loss. The loss of mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, sons, and daughters. It is the day we remember pilots and flight crews, bravery, and heroism. We remember those who took over the cockpit and those who ran into the buildings. Yes, they ran into the fire, up the stairs, and into history.
I remember, like many of you, where I was on that Tuesday morning eighteen years ago. I remember watching the events unfold, the emails from around the globe as family checked on family, the phone calls from Brazil as messages were relayed to and from my late uncle who lived there to family living in Tennessee because calling Brazil that morning was possible; calling family in New York was not.
But more than anything, I remember watching the news, the coverage, the stories, and the sadness. I have always been fascinated by the news, long before I studied journalism in college. In those days that followed, I was pinned to the television. I could not watch enough. I remember how, in those early hours, the people called the place “Ground Hero” in memory of all those brave men and women who ran towards the danger. Long before social media was a way of life, we got our news from the television and that morning the news came quickly and unfiltered.
Soon the media would rename that sacred space in Manhattan as Ground Zero, the epicenter. Though for some families, the epicenter was the Pentagon or a field in Pennsylvania. The moniker stuck, like it often does when people repeat it again and again.
I remember, in the midst of the chaos, the cameras turned to the families when people started to gather because their loved ones had not yet come home. The pictures of the missing filled the screen as commercials were abandoned and some channels were too overcome with grief to broadcast at all. I remember the pictures. The men and women holding posters with photos of their parents, brothers, sisters, lovers, and friends adhered hastily to anything they could find. Just to be able to stand with a photo was enough. There were no words.
Then, because journalists are human and most humans are afraid of silence, the reporter thrust a microphone towards a woman and quietly said, “Tell us about your husband.”
“Every time he walked into the room,” she replied, “He took my breath away.”
I still remember her face. I still get chills when I think about it. I still pray for her.
May our God, who is beyond all understanding, be with us as we pray.
May we look upon those we love with the face of Jesus.
May we practice patience.
May we be people of peace.
May we, in the silence of our hearts, pause for a moment to look at the bright blue September sky.
And remember to give thanks.
For a faithful God who takes our breath away.
Again and again and again.
Amen.