Where Are You Now?

Credits: James R. Tourtellotte

It's so hard to believe it's been 10 years.

News coverage is nearly as constant now as we near the 10th anniversary as it was 10 years ago and to be honest, part of me still feels raw.  The shock is gone, slowly dulled by time, but the tears are still there, just under the surface.  Part of me is still angry.  Part of me still struggles to separate Muslims and extremists and when I hear someone say that Islam is a peaceful religion, I still catch myself rolling my eyes.  I'm not proud of it, but I won't lie to you either. 

Of all the things that happened that week, my most vivid memory is of a little girl named Nikki.  I was working at a daycare, 20 minutes away from Wright-Patterson AFB, teaching 4-year-olds.  This was a small town built upon the outskirts of Wright-Patt and the kids were familiar with and accustomed to the large aircraft, occasional Humvees, uniforms.  We had just finished circle time when one of the parents called to tell us what had happened.  We continued our day as usual, but even the children noticed that there weren't any aircraft flying overhead.

The next day, the kids were noticeably stressed.  Many of them had parents in the Air Force and though 4-year-olds couldn't grasp the magnitude of what happened, they knew it was bad and it was scary.  It was all the talk at circle time.  Mommy cried.  Daddy stayed at work (WPAFB) all night.  The bad guys were getting us.

And then there was Nikki. 

She was 4 or 5, with long blond hair and had had a difficult childhood.  And Nikki was terrified to go outside.  She hid in the playground equipment all during recess and ran to the door as quickly as possible, covering her head, when time was up.  To her, Enon Ohio was as big as New York City and it was just as likely for a plane to crash in Enon as it was in New York.  There was no telling her she was safe; she was convinced it was only a matter of time before a hijacked plane would crash in Enon.  I was so angry; not only had they murdered thousands, they had stolen the innocence of millions more.

During circle time that day, we said prayers.  For New York.  For ourselves.  For our soldiers and firemen.  Some of us cried.  Okay, I cried.  Then we made a card to send to Mayor Guilliani and all the kids signed it with a scrawled picture or the traced outline of a hand.  I don't know what I was trying to accomplish with that card, but it was the only thing I could do.   A few weeks later, we got a postcard from the Mayor, thanking the children for their prayers and their reaction was priceless.  I think everyone wanted to feel helpful and feel like they could give something and for this class, their prayers, thoughts and well-wishes were their gift to New York.

I still have that postcard.

I'm older now and hopefully a bit wiser.  I've birthed 2 children and been reborn myself, but I still ache inside.  Part of me still wants to lash out.  Part of me is bitter and distrusting of my own government.  I still feel resentment.  And part of me wants to hate; wants to hate so so badly.  (Again, I'm not proud of this, but honesty is vital, right?)   Maybe that part of me is the 26-year-old me; the one who spent days on end comforting 4-year-olds and trying to make sense of the tragedy myself.  

But the 36-year-old me feels different.  And as badly as part of me wants to be angry, I feel sympathy.  We've all fallen.  We've all been lost.  Confused.  Deceived.  And if not for the hope we have in Jesus, we'd still be lost, confused, deceived.  When I feel that anger rising, I remind myself that I can boast of Jesus and His redeeming work.  I have a promise to depend on and no matter what happens, that never changes.  The people who inflicted this terrible tragedy on us didn't have that hope. 

With all love and humility,  I tell you that I don't want to be angry at those without hope.  Oh, I know that isn't politically correct, but I don't strive to be politically correct.  I strive to be genuine with you and honest with myself.  10 years ago, I could have pushed the nuke button myself.  But now, now things are different.

When we watch coverage of 9/11, 'Where were you?' inevitably comes up.  And unless you were living under a rock, you probably remember exactly where you were and what you were doing when you heard the news.  And that's important.  We can't forget the ones we lost.  But I think it's more important to discuss where we are now.  How far we've come.  How we've changed.  How we've grown.  How we've forgiven.     

10 years later.  Where are you now?