This being the 11th of September, and I being an American, I will just say that I remember.
I remember being fifteen, outside watering my tomato plants, waving to a little Cessna plane that waved back and did a loop as I cheered. Then my little sister came running, yelling that Grandma said to turn on the TV, something horrible had happened. "How did an accident like that happen in the middle of New York?" I thought. We watched as the second plane hit, and it was no accident.
I remember thinking WWIII was
beginning. Wondering if my best friends' older brothers were going to enlist or be drafted. Wondering if Wichita's aeronautics industry would be affected or even targeted.
I started writing. I wrote letters to my daughter, hypothetically named Evelyn. I told her how I felt, what was going on...I wanted to share my part of history. I was struggling to understand it myself, but I wanted her to. Inspiration isn't really the right word, but the tragedy, shock and fear of those days, weeks and months prompted my writing.
Eleven years later, I have a daughter, a cuddly, teething 7 month-old. It is odd to think of one day giving her those letters, but I am so very glad I have them.
I pray for the families and friends of those who died, because grieving never really ends. I feel a little far from home today. But I know this earth is our temporary home and one day, Jesus will come to take me to His Country, where there is no more pain or hate or suffering or death.