Remembering

I remember that morning clearly. I was working in the elementary school at the time. Newly married and full of hope, I waited in my khaki capris and sleeveless white tee for our special education students. There were a few of us, most of whom I am still friends with today, who stood in that sunshine filled doorway, never imagining what was happening in our world.

First a woman talking under her breath, whisked past us and turned just inside the building to say, "Something has happened, did you hear what happened?" We stared at her blankly, we heard no sirens, saw nothing amiss. She kept going. Then, a man, "Do you have all the TVs on? We need to see what's going on." Our curiosity peaked, we knew we did not have the time to venture back to find a television set, so we continued to wait for our students. That was the first of the uneasy feeling.

Once our kids had been escorted off of their buses, we led them back to their classroom, only on the way, a sixth grade teacher had set up a TV in the hallway and in full color, we could see the devastation, the despair, the complete chaos that affected not one city, but three. It affected not one human life but millions. The hall fell silent and we were forced to turn off the television and move, as not to scare the children that might pass. The parents reserve the right to speak with their own children, deal with it in a manner consistant with crisis, in the privacy of their homes. Within moments, SUVs and station wagons, sedans and vans, even a motorcycle came up the drive chock full of parents to retrieve their little people and hug them, assure them, assure themselves and wait and watch. Children were signed out all day. I'm not sure I "got it" then, but I sure "get it" now.

There was an irony to this whole scenerio for me, I had discovered the evening before that I was having a baby. A life, a child...I was going to fulfill a lifelong dream and bring a child into this crazy world. We were going to be parents. The anniversary of September 11 will never go unnoticed in our family because it marks such a critical time for us - for others, it marks the worst, for us it marks the very best.

Dismissed early, I arrived home to the cacophony of images that still plague our nation. I cried, I prayed, I thought. I was blessed to not have lost loved ones, but I prayed for those who did. I prayed for the families who had not said goodbye. I prayed for all the mommies that were pregnant,like me and the strength they would need as they faced those pregnancies alone. Like our Emily, they have five year olds now. It occurs to me the hope that weaves itself into disaster. The hope of a life, of a child. I prayed for all the parents, as I wrapped myself around the joy that would be our child, it occurred to me how many parents had lost their sons or daughters to terrorism. It challenged my faith, my spirit, my very core. But, at the root of all challenges lies hope and I held that hope, within my very being, I held that hope.

Emily likes to sing a christian children's song, "I am a Promise". Someday, when she is old enough, I will be able to tell her just how much of a promise she was to many that year. She continues to represent all that is good and right with the world. I remember what was lost that fateful day - it is more so because I remember how much I gained that year. May we never forget the tragedy that shaped a nation, caused us all pause and remain thankful for all who serve, in the name of freedom. May we never forget that even in the darkest of hours, hope presents itself, sometimes small and beating, but ever present.