How Did I Get Here, And Where Is The Next Turn?

Greetings and salutations to all who deem this worthy of your time...

Brought up Sep 11, 2013

September 11, 2001

For eleven years now, on this day, I think of that day in 2001 when our entire nation saw what evil can really do to the unsuspecting. My generation has it's own, "Where were you when..." moment in time, as our parents did with the Kennedy and King murders.

Twelve years later, and those images still bring tears to my eyes, a lump in my throat fighting down what feels like the same screams I stifled that day, as I begged the husband to get out of bed, come in here, and tell me it was all some stunt. It could not be real, could it?

I sat here, pretty much where I am right now, my hands over my mouth, as they showed those planes hit, the buildings come down. I begged God that it not be true.

All those people, on the planes, in the buildings. Surely it was a nightmare, and I would wake. It wasn't, or I didn't. And our country still struggles to make sense of it all.

I think last year's blog mentioned that the Punk was there, in Manhattan, not far from it all. Today, he, via computer and Google Maps, took me on a little walking tour of his version of that day. He showed me where he lived while there, where he had been on that day, across the street from the Stock Exchange. He showed me where he and another from his work and apartment building ducked for cover, him throwing his computer bag over her head to protect her. He told me last year of their trek to their apartments, her search for her husband and small child. Of his call back home, in Alabama, where his wife was with their children.

Today, it was more real, some how.

I learned many years ago that the Punk was in Manhattan back then, and I have always said a small prayer of thanks that my childhood friend was spared. Today, as I said, it was much more real. Especially his casual mention of how he would walk to work, going to the mall under one of the Towers, grabbing breakfast on the way. yes, I sat here, reading those words with my hands over my mouth, an "Oh, Dear God", escaping around my fingers.

Yes, I sat here twelve years ago, fighting down screams as a part of the world I so want to visit, and still do, was ripped to shreds, and my friend was somewhere in all that, playing Galahad with a computer bag, ducking behind a concrete dock bedside the Hudson River.

We were all attacked that day, and a piece of every American died that day. Some pieces were just much bigger than others, the pain, and the hole left behind greater.

Somehow, even with all of that day's loss, our being attacked basically just because we exist, I still believe.

I believe there is hope for our country, for all human kind, to be greater than we seem.

I believe there is still a chance for our world to come together and love one another and all our differences.

I believe in the faith of our founding fathers who built this country, wrote our Constitution that has stood firm for the 200+ years, even when this one and that one has tried to tear it apart.

Most of all, I believe that God has a plan, and we are not to try to guess or question what it is, though we do. Actually, I do question it, everyday, yet I believe. I have to, don't you? Otherwise, it's all for naught, as the old ones wrote, in vain. I can't believe that.

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the punk » 4 years ago

Well said friend.

Thanks for listening today.

I believe too.