I still have the newspaper from September 12, 2001. Its pages are yellowed, but the images of billowing smoke and balls of fire are as clear as my memories of the day before.
I was young, barely an adult, miles and miles away from the center of terror. But I could feel it in my bones. And I knew the images and stories and experiences of those who fell and those who helped us rise again were worth hanging onto. And perhaps I believed that I’d need a tangible reminder to never forget it all.
Today, my daughter is reading that newspaper. The one that captured the day those Towers fell. The one that captured the horror. The terror. The one that captured the events of the day before in black and white, though matters of safety and security were forever made gray.
She’s learning about the significance of those horrifying attacks. The significance of the terror, unrest and heartache. The significance of what hatred can do. The significance of that utterly chaotic day in our country’s history.
But she’s also learning about the significance of life and love. That putting off either is of no use. Because our ability to do either might go up in smoke tomorrow.
But mostly she’s learning that even when the world is falling apart, our faith, hope and love remain intact. And that nothing can destroy those.
Leave a Reply