Ten years ago today I kissed my children as I dropped them off at school, started folding laundry on my bed, and turned on the Today Show. It was my ritual.
Katie and Matt looked slightly concerned when I glanced up, dishtowel in hand. A small plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers.
I called my husband at work. He's a pilot, and we conferred briefly about how much havoc an air traffic control error could wreak. It was any other Tuesday, with a minor accident in New York City.
When the second plane hit, my stomach reacted the same way yours did. We knew. I must admit that I still held hope that it was the work of an isolated crackpot or two, not an international terror attack.
The collapse of the first building mesmerized me. The knowledge that the second would fall as well had me frozen in horror.
Our collective memory of that day unites us all. The tears we shed as we watched events unfold in Pennsylvania and Washington, the fear that gripped us as we contemplated what could possibly come next, the eerie silence and apprehension every time we sneaked a furtive glance at the sky for weeks . . . months.
The newscasters kept saying life in our country would never be the same. We talked about our nightmares (mine involved bombs in nearby Tampa, where MacDill Air Force Base is located). We comforted our children. We prayed. A lot.
I still do, most every day. I pray for America. I pray for the safety of our country and for God's blessing on her people.
For all the innocents in this world affected by twisted, hateful, cruel ideology.
A friend across the ocean recently reminded me that Americans were not the only ones touched by the terror of September 11, 2001. She is right—the list of nationalities among the victims is a mile long.
None of us will ever forget. It's a wound that will never heal, but the scar is less noticeable after a decade. May it fade more in time.
Love from Delta.