We.

Quick, name the most mundane thing you can.
I'll help. It's folding laundry.
That's what I was doing that morning, sitting on the bed surrounded by faded towels and washcloths. The children were at school.
Matt Lauer still had hair, and he was droning on about nothing of interest.
Until.
Until he and Katie started talking about a plane hitting the World Trade Center Tower in New York City, a place so far removed from my consciousness at that moment, it didn't really sink in.
Stuff happens. A plane went astray.
But Matt kept referring to it. Katie started looking less perky and more concerned.
I called my husband at work, because he's a pilot and he knows stuff. "How the hell could air traffic control mess up enough to send a small plane into a building in New York City?"
He basically said that made no sense.
Maybe a pilot had a heart attack or something. It was almost 9:00, and I told him I'd call back if I heard more.
I had absolutely no concept of the kick to my heart that would be delivered in about seven more minutes, as the second plane struck and we all, collectively, lost our innocence.
The single person we became as we watched the towers collapse, the Pentagon attacked. When we, as one, cried because some very brave people thwarted the fourth sky-bombing by forcing their own jet airplane into the barren fields of Shanksville, Pennsylvania, population 245.
Synonymous now with courage and defiance.
Let's roll.
We.
We, as one, looked into the skies in fear, knowing aircraft were grounded and dreading the sight of one.
We did that for months, long after flights resumed, furtive glances for anything evil lurking in the fluffy white clouds.
We had nightmares.
We held our children closer, longer, and were moved to tears as we did.
We mourned, we raged, we were united in our grief.
How utterly heartbreaking it is to consider that unity was only created in tragedy, and we've lost it.
Except for September 11th, when a ghost of America as One, ephemeral and shimmering, is briefly glimpsed.

Love from Delta.

On September 11th

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.

Please watch.

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.