A little while back, I felt compelled to write down a memory. Today seems an appropriate day to share it.
Although I lived in the New York City area when 9/11 happened, it did not affect my life very much directly. True, my husband worked in Manhattan, as I had, before I stopped teaching to have our first child. But he had called me early that morning, shortly after the first plane hit the World Trade Center, to make sure that someone we knew was all right. He told me he was getting out of there and although I couldn’t reach him again for most of that day, I knew he was probably okay. Most of the people we knew who worked downtown worked in other buildings. Later we learned that those who had or who were supposed to be there were for whatever reason, out of the building during the scariest moments. I went outside and saw the buildings standing alone in their inferno, as one tower went down and then the other. I saw the shock and horror on my neighbors’ faces, this crisis to weather together, even though we didn't know each other. It was a horrible and surprising day to our entire country.
Still, in some ways, I felt disconnected from the tragedy. We lost tv reception, because all receivers for our area (but CBS') were on top of the towers. There was a stench in the air that reminded everyone that this was more than a bad dream. It wasn’t until we went to the Laundromat a few days later and saw the Missing signs posted that I realized people in my own little neighborhood were so effected. That Friday night, people lit candles and tried to summon up whatever peace they could that our country could recover, that we would be okay, and that those directly impacted would be taken care of.
After 9/11, people took down their Cuban, Puerto Rican, Japanese, or whatever other flags they had and everyone displayed their American pride. It was a way of saying, we are individuals with a past to celebrate. But right now, we’re remembering that we are all Americans. We are brothers and sisters of the same mother country and we are standing together. I really felt this one day at the park.
There was a Catholic church in my neighborhood that had a bell tower. They played hymns or familiar religious songs throughout the day, typically around lunchtime or in the early afternoon. The church was built in the early 1900s and was across the street from a park where I often took my little girl. This park was strangely silent at times, since many of the children were from varied nationalities with different languages spoken at home. Some of the children came with their day care groups, and as children (and adults) who spend lots of time together often do, they fought sometimes. One day, the children were playing somewhat peacefully and quietly as the carillon tower bonged out various hymns. Then the musician played one that was familiar to everyone there. Suddenly, all of the children, completely voluntarily, started to sing, in their own voices, musical or not, native English speakers or not:
“God bless America, land that I love!
Stand beside her, and guide her
Through the night with a light from above.
From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans, white with foam-
God bless America, my home, sweet home!
God bless America, my home, sweet home.
I don’t know if any of those children were directly impacted by the man-made disaster which had rocked our nation shortly before. There was a chill in the air and undoubtedly many in the area were afraid for what the future held. As I quietly sang with the children in the park, I felt comforted and assured as we sang that there is a God, and he is mindful of us, from one end of the country to the next. This song was written in 1938. I don’t know if Irving Berlin ever had the vision that in the next century, children would be comforted by his words and music. I am thankful that many of the rising generation has trust that the Lord will continue to bless this great nation, that we have been so blessed to call home.
Felicity and I at Liberty State Park (where survivors from Ground Zero were taken), on August 31, 2001.
