I've been trying to come up with something profound to write today to honor the victims, survivors, and families of 9/11. I've got nothing.
I've spent the morning worshipping my Lord and the afternoon with my husband and son reliving the events of that day. That just seemed to be the right thing to do today.
I was a senior in high school tin 2001, and we were on a field trip that day. We went into downtown Atlanta to watch a play. It was going to be a fun, easy day.
Before we went into the theater, our chaperone checked her phone and told us that a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center in New York. I didn't even know what the World Trade Center was.
Just before the intermission of the play, the lights came back on, the actors stopped, and the theater manager walked out on stage. He told us of the terrorist attacks. He said Atlanta might be a target. He though we should go.
I don't remember much. I remember curling up in the seat of the school bus as we sped down the interstate, desperate to make it back to the school. I remember the blue sky. I remember looking into the windows of the cars as we passed. The drivers were frantic in their cars. I prayed and cried.
I remember walking into my art class and watching the news coverage with my classmates. I remember driving home and being afraid.
I remember going to church that night -- a Tuesday night -- and the church was packed with people. I remember the church was packed again the next night. That was the only time I've ever seen the church packed on a Wednesday night.
I remember how we all needed God. There was an urgency. I remember being surprised how quickly we lost that urgency.
Today, 10 years later, I cry for the families who lost loved ones. I hold my son tight as I watch interviews with 10 year old children who lost their fathers before they ever knew them. And I pray.