9/11 – Today I Remember

Today America solemnly reflects back to the exact minutes when our homeland was attacked by terrorists. It’s hard to believe that it’s been nine years. For many, including yours truly, it feels like yesterday. The emotions are still so raw, and the memories are still fresh.

Today I remember what it sounded like when American Airlines flight 77 breached the core of the Pentagon. I remember wondering if the terrorists on board that flight could have carried some other type of WMD on the plane with them. I remember the heat and the smell of jet fuel. I remember bloodied and battered people being carted to waiting cars and emergency vehicles. I remember the silence that lingered over Washington, DC for what felt like an eternity because the skies were empty of airplanes. I remember seeing armored military police vehicles stationed at nearly every corner. I remember not knowing for more than a week if a friend had perished in the Pentagon only to learn he had been out of town on Pentagon business but that some of his peers had been killed that day.

I remember watching all the video from other news gathering sources. I remember the man and woman who jumped from one of the towers. I remember the color of her hair, her skirt as it billowed like a balloon, his tie. They were holding hands. I wonder how they made the decision. Were they a couple? Did they even know each others name? Did they get to say goodbye to anyone else? What were they thinking as they watched the earth come closer and closer?

I remember a dismembered hand and wondered if the body to which it belonged was among the living or the dead. I remember the faces of the brave firefighters climbing the stairs as frightened citizens walked the opposite direction. They never flinched at what they were facing. Would they do it again if they knew the outcome? I believe they would. I remember the clouds of ash when the buildings tumbled. I thought it ironic that even the walls of the Pentagon came down, although it was only the facade. Everything crumbled that day.

I remember Members of Congress, normally at each others throats suddenly comforting each other, encouraging and inspiring their constituents, singing God Bless America in unity and meaning it. I remember many of those same Members gathering for a private (no media allowed) night of prayer for our nation, the victims and the victims families. When had that ever happened before? I remember when our country believed in its president; when politics and religion didn’t matter because we were all wounded.

Most of those memories linger in my mind not just on the anniversary but quite often on a regular basis. Thankfully, less and less often as time passes. For many who witnessed or survived 9/11, like me, the wounds are internal. They cannot be seen. But we are called – yelled at, really – to get over it. Move on. It happened; deal with it. The same isn’t true for someone who lost a limb or was severely burned or has some other physical evidence of their 9/11 experience. And yet, as we reflect and remember, I have come to see an America that is once again divided. The sense of unity once felt is gone.

The wounds unseen are trampled for the sake of political and religious tolerance. We cave to those who claim to be peaceful but show intolerance by threatening with violence but declare those who have invisible scars as insensitive and inconsiderate. Whatever happened to compassion?

Today my grief continues whether a mosque is built or a Quran is burnt or neither happens. Tomorrow it will be the same. Because today I remember; every day I remember. I cannot forget, and I wish others would not forget.

The Grace That is Sufficient

Today we’re switching gears. Today’s post won’t focus on the Canadian Tenors or Voices for Bulembu, although those things are still on my mind and there is still much work to be done. But this is the time of year where my thoughts typically turn to memories I would rather not have.

This is the time of year where images and sounds and unsavory odors return to haunt me and remind me of an incident that is seared into my brain. This is the time of year when I start to look skyward and watch airplanes as they make their landing approach like a mother watching from the front stoop of her home to make sure her children make it safely off the school bus at the end of the day. This is the time of year when I start to think of the men and women who wear blue to serve and protect or run toward a fire instead of away from it just to save one more life.

This is also the time of year when overwhelming grief and sadness envelop me like a giant wave crashing against the shore. I can see it coming every year but it still takes me by surprise. Every year it takes longer for the wave to reach the shoreline, and I’m thankful for that. There was a time when the darkness and depth of the waters that surrounded me lasted year-round. But with time, I found my way to the top, then to the shore, then to the beach.

Perhaps the grief is my homage to those who died on 9/11. Perhaps it is my penance for not having done enough to help. This year it feels like punishment because I have found new healing although not entirely complete. So many others wear permanent scars from what they experienced that day. I suppose I do too but they are buried deep within. No one sees them and for that reason, they assume things – incorrectly, I might add.

Despite the many blessings in my life, I will carry this great sadness with me until 9/12. That’s just the way it’s been for these last nine years. I wish it could be different but I don’t know how to change it. I still think of that day throughout the year but as the anniversary draws near, every year my grief becomes a casket of nearly 3,000 souls I wear around my neck. And the memories are as fresh as if I were living it all over again, every single day.

This morning, I read these words from 2 Corinthians 12:9: “My grace is sufficient for you.”

How often do we pray, “Lord, make your grace sufficient for me”? But He says, “How dare you ask me when I have already said it is so!” A quote from a devotional I read on this topic this morning: “The Lord says it in the simplest way: ‘My grace is [not will be or may be] sufficient for you.’”

Get up and believe it to be true in your life. I am doing the same even in these darkest hours. The grace that is sufficient is indeed sufficient.

Bring Him Home

What does it feel like to live life without a soul? I used to think that only people who had surrendered to the great Enemy could roam this planet soulless until I lost my mine. It happened for me on 9/11 when I was across the street from the Pentagon. What I witnessed and experienced that day and on the days that followed as a journalist in Washington, DC left me feeling as if my body was an empty husk without the soul that used to drink in the beauty and wonder of life. I felt as if my very core rose to the heavens with the smoke that billowed from the burning wreckage that was the Pentagon. Nothing mattered anymore; not even the things what once stirred within me. Nothing moved me for nearly nine years.

I realize now that my soul never left me. I simply kept it hidden from the pain that was simply too much to bear. I think I forgot where I put it because I eventually got used to feeling nothing. The reunion of body and soul took place in February 2010 when I heard the first melodious strains of the musical group, the Canadian Tenors. The emotion that poured out of me was unlike anything I had ever experienced. And I have been making up for lost time ever since.

With this renewed awareness comes new passion for things I’d never dreamed possible. I have been blessed in recent weeks to get to know the men behind the voices of the Canadian Tenors – Remigio Pereira, Victor Micallef, Clifton Murray and Fraser Walters – and am even more blessed to walk alongside them in their journey of philanthropic efforts, especially Voices for Bulembu, which supports the Bulembu Foundation.

Bulembu is a small town in the northwestern region of Swaziland and is privately owned by the aforementioned Foundation. It was purchased with a vision to rejuvenate the now devastated town into a self-sustaining entity.

What makes the plight of the Swazi children so compelling to me is in knowing that I can make a difference by writing and telling their story. These children and their families know of anguish and sorrow on a level most of us will never comprehend. Many are born with HIV/AIDS; generations of families have been wiped out. It is the only country on earth that is experiencing a negative population growth rate and the Swazi people could cease to exist by 2050. Despite the strife they see every day, their souls are filled with joy for the little things, the relationships they have with one another, and the lives they get to live, no matter how short.

My heartache will never completely go away but I also have tools and resources available to me to make the path bearable. For reasons beyond their control, the people of Bulembu have been dealt a hand that can’t be played alone. They haven’t had access to the same type of care and support accessible to us in richer nations. The Canadian Tenors are trying to change that through Voices for Bulembu and the Bulembu Foundation. They are working in harmony to help this tiny town return to vibrancy by combining innovative enterprises with orphan care for Swaziland’s most vulnerable children.

God has given me the wonderful burden of caring for these orphans I’ve never met. If I can find hope and healing through music after experiencing what is hopefully a once-in-a-lifetime incident, what more do these children deserve for all they encounter every day without end?

Tenor Fraser Walters sings the haunting hymn “Bring Him Home” from Les Miserables. The song speaks of one man’s plea to God to save the young man he cares for as a son, going so far as to ask God to let him die and bring the young man home safe from battle.

In many ways, God brought me home; home from the internal battle that was keeping me from peace and joy. And someday, He’ll bring me to His Home. Who am I that I should have this opportunity when others cannot? For the children of Bulembu, I now offer whatever I can so God will bring them rest, peace, and joy; so He will bring them home and let them live.

Bring Him Home (Lyrics by Herbert Kretzmer)
God on high
Hear my prayer
In my need
You have always been there

He is young
He’s afraid
Let him rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring him home.

He’s like the son I might have known
If God had granted me a son.
The summers die
One by one
How soon they fly
On and on
And I am old
And will be gone.

Bring him peace
Bring him joy
He is young
He is only a boy

You can take
You can give
Let him be
Let him live
If I die, let me die
Let him live
Bring him home.

Nobodies Hero

I always watch with great fascination anytime I see a story of lifesaving heroics. A man lifts a car off of a child by sheer strength. A mother jumps into the freezing river to save her child. Witnesses rush to a burning car to save trapped accident victims. These are the moments when I think of the Bible verse that says, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends.” (John 15:13)

At some point in my amazement at the unselfishness of those who act without hesitation, I always think to myself, “If I’m ever in that kind of situation, I’ll be a hero too. Nothing will stop me from helping someone in need.”

I had such an opportunity on 9/11/01 when I was across the street from the Pentagon when its core was breached by an airplane. As soon as I heard the plane crash, I had a decision to make: Run to the scene and help, get to my new job at CBN News to help inform the world, or do nothing. Although it wasn’t what I wanted to do, I chose the latter. Actually, the choice was made for me by a body frozen in fear. I literally could not move.

In the years since that day, I have struggled not only with what I saw (in person and on video) but also with what I didn’t do. So many people – including a few therapists along way – have reminded me that, even with my press passes, I probably wouldn’t have been allowed to get close enough to help any of the victims. My mind often goes back to those who were in the burning Twin Towers with no chance of escape. Watching video of the jumpers haunts me to this day. But again, I have often been reminded, there is nothing I could have done. I wasn’t even in New York, and even if I had been, I couldn’t possibly have saved anyone trapped above the point of impact.

At the very least, I could have helped humanity by doing my job and reporting the facts as they unraveled. I should have helped a frightened America with news and knowledge that could have possibly provided some sort of comfort. But I didn’t even do that much. I was too scared to do my job.

I have heard from many who care – including a number of therapists along the way – who have said that I did help by coming to work the next day and relieving those who had been working through the night on this breaking story, which is what my boss asked me to do. To be honest, I think that’s just fluff to make me feel better, but I try to accept it for what it’s worth.

I really wanted to be a hero that day. And in so many ways, I haven’t been able to forgive myself for what I didn’t do. As I continue the healing process, I am learning to forgive. It is, however, a slow process.

I wonder what will happen if I am ever presented with a scenario that requires swift action, the kind of action that could possibly save a life. Will I respond differently? I would like to say that I will. Perhaps I’ll never have to find out, and that would be ok, too. In the meantime, I try to help in other ways, including telling my story. I doubt it will save a life, but perhaps it will help someone in some small way.

Is there something you did or didn’t do for which you haven’t forgiven yourself? What’s stopping you?

The Stuff of Friendship

Earlier this morning I received some incredibly discouraging news. In fact, I was pretty devastated at first. I immediately emailed and called three dear friends to share the latest update with them. While I’m still disappointed that things didn’t turn out exactly as I had hoped, I am encouraged that the door isn’t entirely closed. And I have my friends to thank for that.

The most wonderful part of the entire experience was being able to watch how God used all three of these women to lift me up and help me take the next step. These three women have never met one another, and they didn’t know I was talking to the others. None of them are in the same state. In fact, one of them isn’t even in the same country as the rest of us. One friend has been the sister I never had and two of them I have never met face-to-face. I met one of them through a former job and struck up an email friendship nearly six years ago, and the other I just met through Facebook and through a mutual admiration for my favorite singing group, the Canadian Tenors.

I was able to witness the wonder of God’s work through these women as they each shared the exact same encouraging words. They each pointed out the same things I had overlooked before and they each helped me to remember the bigger picture. Watching this supernatural scenario unfold reminded me that God is at work – always. And He’s always in control. And it reminded me of the stuff of friendship. These ladies were the epitome of friend, and together from worlds apart, they demonstrated Ecclesiastes 4:12: “Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves.
A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.”

I am reminded of the conversation I recently had with the women of my small group about true spiritual friendship at our retreat this past weekend at the Mahseh Retreat Center.  An exercise led by one of the women helped me discover that I already have true spiritual friendships in each of them and in the three women who were at my side today. If you’re seeking that kind of friendship, take a moment to answer the same questions I answered a few days ago.

• What do you especially desire right now as it relates to friendship?
• What makes you feel understood or hurt by a friend?
• Describe a painful ending to a friendship. What happened and why?
• What role does prayer currently play in friendships?
• What would be risky about suggesting a greater role of prayer?
• What do you think would change if you had a greater experience of prayer in friendship?

And now, tell God what you want, what you resist, what your fears are, and what you wish to experience with friendship.

Perhaps you already have true, meaningful friendships. If you do, count your blessings. If not, consider these steps while considering how you can become a better friend where “two are better than one”. (Ecc. 4:9a)

Tell me about your deepest relationships. I’d love to hear about your experiences in the stuff of friendship.

Laugh Again

I always appreciated the sentiment behind working for a Christian organization, and the same was true when I worked for CBN News in Washington, DC as a producer. That warm, fuzzy feeling was quickly put in its place once I realized they (the people who work there) are forgiven, not perfect. Yet, every once in a while, true agape love was shown in meaningful and often simple ways.

In the days and weeks after 9/11, I walked around much like the rest of the residents in DC and NY – like a zombie. One of our photogs noticed the deep depression washing over me. After another long day on Capitol Hill, we made our way back to the office. I wrapped up my duties and headed for the door when Jeremy caught up with me and said, “I’m really concerned about you. Take this and read it. Maybe you’ll discover how to laugh again.”

I looked down and found in my hand a small book – no bigger than an iPod – called “Laugh Again” by Chuck Swindoll. It’s about how the Apostle Paul found reason to laugh, or at the very least, smile, through every circumstance, even the trials of life. I mumbled my thanks and left.

The book remained cupped in my hand as I entered the Metro, which was typically packed. I noticed a few empty seats even though there were plenty of people standing. I found myself oddly drawn to sit next to a young man who had the kindest looking face. Once the train started moving, the man said, “How do you laugh?”

“Great,” I thought. “I had to sit next to the only quack on the train.”

Without looking at him, I said, “What?”

“How do you laugh? You’re holding that book called ‘Laugh Again’, and I just wondered how you laugh.”

“I don’t have much of a reason to laugh anymore,” I said, still not making eye contact.

“Not many of us do,” he replied. “But, while those men meant to harm us, God meant it all for good.”

I nodded half-heartedly. He paused for a minute or two, then said, “Do you know that God thinks you’re beautiful, and He’s going to do amazing things through you.”

This time I looked at the young man. His face still presented gentleness, his eyes filled with loving compassion. Inexplicably, every person on the train seemed to disappear, and there wasn’t a sound to be heard, save for our conversation. It was just me and that young man.

“What?” I asked again.

“God thinks you’re beautiful. He is going to do amazing things through you.”

I collapsed into the arms of this stranger, sobbing uncontrollably. His words – and the truth of them – pierced my heart with profound conviction. He held me as I cried and kept reminding me how much God loved me.

As I eventually pulled myself together and out of his embrace, our surroundings returned to normal. I looked around to see if anyone was starring. No one seemed to notice my meltdown, and I was thankful.

“This is my stop,” said the young man, whose eyes were as brown as his hair. “Don’t forget what I have told you. And you will laugh again.”

With that, he stepped off the Metro, disappearing into the crowd. I never saw him again. But I have never forgotten his words. They were the beginning of intense sadness and pain and healing, and yes, eventual laughter.

How do you laugh in the midst of trials and tribulations? Are you able to laugh at all?

Oh, What a Feeling

Most of my days are filled with silence. At least that has been my preference ever since I lost my connection to music after the events of 9/11, as I described in a previous post. Before my intimate encounter with terrorism, I listened to music constantly. It was part of the fabric of my being. But the numbness that greeted me that day left me wanting nothing but silence; not even music could move me anymore. If I did listen to a song on the radio, I often felt worse, knowing what I was missing and being reminded of what I once had; pure joy, passion, excitement, peace, intimacy with my Heavenly Father. I was in enough pain, so why torture myself with more. I often felt turning on the radio or popping in a CD was a useless attempt to recapture what I was certain would never return. So, in my car, which is where I usually listened to music, I drove in silence.

All of that ended when my soul was re-awakened the first time I heard the Canadian Tenors when they appeared on Oprah earlier this year. Since getting their debut and Christmas CD’s downloaded on my MP3 player, I am rarely without the sounds of music. More specifically, I am rarely without the sounds of the Tenors! At times I listen just to see if my soul is still alive, as if the emotions I experience through their voices would no longer rise to the surface. Thankfully, that has not happened!

But I mostly listen because I simply love their music and the sound of their voices. I hear something new practically every time I turn on the player. I can once again hear four-part harmonies, which always send chills down my spine. Clifton brings such a gentle strength to the ensemble through his wide vocal range. You can’t help but stand a little taller anytime he sings. Remigio’s enthusiasm is exquisitely articulated through his voice and in the strumming of his guitar on various songs. (And if you’ve never listened to any of his solo works, you’re really missing out! This guy is talented!) Victor brings romance through his operatic voicing; the kind that makes you want to grab the one you love and just let nature take over! Fraser has the most pure-sounding voice I have ever heard. He forces you to connect with the music in such a way that leaves you feeling as if you are one with him and the song. But the intimacy and emotion he exudes allows you to melt willingly. Who else can do that?

My husband and I just returned from a road trip to South Carolina to visit my parents. I brought lots of writing material and, of course, my MP3 player, intent on listening to more of the Tenors. It is about a 10-11 hour drive, and I’m certain I could have listened to them repeatedly for the duration. But I decided to spare my husband and used the earplugs. But even then, I couldn’t exactly ignore him through our entire commute. And I wouldn’t be able to use the earplugs during my leg of the drive. When I climbed behind the wheel, I chose some of my old favorites, just to pass the time. I played Celine Dion, Carrie Underwood, some old gospel music, Point of Grace, and Faith Hill; songs I hadn’t heard in a long time. And I couldn’t believe what happened.

Instead of the emptiness I’d felt so much before, I felt full of life listening to these artists and their music. Instead of the dark clouds that hung over me, I felt clear skies, as if God was caressing my face with the sun. I found endless wonders in the melody and strains of the instruments. It was almost like what I had experienced the first time I heard the Canadian Tenors, albeit not as intense. It was just like before 9/11 robbed me of the sweetness, purity and innocence I felt in life and song.

I wasn’t expecting this surprise. But isn’t that how God works? Mysteriously and usually when we’re not looking. While we’re busy looking for the burning bush, He sends His love in the soft, melodious sounds through the voices of the children He created. And, oh, what a feeling.

What do you feel when you listen to music?

BONUS: Check out this sneak peak of the Canadian Tenors and their upcoming PBS special (The Canadian Tenors: Live in Toronto)

Who am I?

The question of “who am I” is commonly asked among the younger generation. Tweens and teens alike wonder what their purpose is in life and how they’re supposed to go about accomplishing that purpose. Even youngsters in college seek clarification in their identity, wondering what to study and how their education and social experiences will make a positive impact on the world. I have often heard people say that the older you get the more you know yourself. I can testify to the validity of this claim but I have also learned, as I have gotten older, if you’re willing, you never stop growing.

Remaining stagnant in anything is not an option for me. I hunger for God’s wisdom and crave being all He destined for me to be. More often than not, the growth that comes with that wisdom is painful. I liken it to open heart surgery – without anesthesia. I have, in recent months, gone through a number of such procedures, and have discovered a few things about myself that I didn’t know before. While I know I’m becoming exactly who God wants me to be, I am finding myself grieving over who I know I will never be. And I feel an ever-increasing isolation because, like I did in high school, I feel like I don’t fit in.

One of those areas of understanding and acceptance is related to my 9/11 experience. I so desperately wanted to get the heck out of Washington, DC after the attacks on America. I was surrounded by a fraternity of journalists who had gone through what I went through. But, our club meetings were always silent. No one spoke of what they saw or felt or experienced that day and in the days afterward. With that silence came a feeling of alone-ness that has yet to leave me. I needed to know I wasn’t the only one feeling what I was feeling. Those answers never came from my brethren.

Moving to Indianapolis was, in my mind, the safest place I could get without having to remove myself from the planet yet still close enough to be able to get home to my family in SC in a matter of hours all while still working as a journalist, albeit in print instead of TV news. What I have discovered here is even more isolation. To my knowledge, I am the only person in Indianapolis, Indiana who heard the plane crash into the Pentagon in person, the only one who watched video of the jumpers from the World Trade Center buildings before they collapsed, the only one who felt the heat rising from the Pentagon for days after the fire was extinguished. I am the only one in Indianapolis who covered the events of 9/11 in NY and knows the stench of 3,000 dead bodies. I am the only one.

That’s not to suggest others in Indiana were not affected adversely by the attacks. Perhaps they lost a loved one or a friend. Perhaps they were a first responder who went to NY or DC to assist in recover efforts. In those experiences, there is a common bond. But from 8:48 am, 9/11/01 to this very minute, I know of no one else that can relate. I have had so many conversations with people about what I saw, desperately needing someone to say, “I understand.” I continue to wait for those words of comfort.

Everyone has experienced pain; that is the common bond in the human race. But somewhere in this town is a woman who can relate to a mother who lost a child because she has lost one too. Somewhere in this town is a man who knows what it feels like to have survived cancer because he had it too. Somewhere in this town is a son who knows what his friend is struggling with watching his parents battle dementia because he is watching it in his family too.

Somewhere in Indianapolis, Indiana is a woman who is isolated because no one else in this town understands because they have never walked in my shoes. Who am I if I am alone?

The Canadian Tenors – Return to Music

The last nine years have been frustrating for me in many ways regarding what I witnessed on 9/11. So much was lost that day; for some the loss is unfathomable. For me I lost my sense of security, my conviction that, with time, all wounds heal and the feeling that I belong. And there is more but I can say that one of the things I lost that day is what hurts me the most: I lost music.

Music wasn’t especially a big part of my family but it was the biggest part of my life. I dreamed of performing on stage professionally for the rest of my life when I was in my youth! And even though I didn’t go on to become a Rock & Roll star, I still enjoyed performing through community theater well into adulthood. And music remained, flowing through my veins thicker than my blood. Music filled me with such peace and calm. The intricacies of every type of music and every instrument took me to the Throne Room of Heaven like nothing else could. I always felt enveloped by God’s love through the sounds of music.

And then life was interrupted. Research shows that people who are exposed to, are witness to or are the victim of a traumatic experience have those images almost seared into their memory, and as a result, many are diagnosed with posttraumatic stress disorder. A trauma is a wound; PTSD refers to a deep emotional wound. Among the many consequences is an emotional numbness which may present as a lack of interest in activities that used to be enjoyed; an emotional deadness.

My PTSD diagnoses came in 2005, four years after my 9/11 experience. I wouldn’t say that I was entirely dead emotionally but I certainly was numb. And I still am; numb to everything that once brought me great joy, including music. I listened to music constantly and only felt emptiness. The music of my favorite singers and musicians seemed to echo as it flowed flatly through my soul. Eventually, it stopped flowing altogether. I can’t even begin to describe how lonely it is to be without music. Turn it on and turn it as loud as you want, it won’t matter to me anymore. I got to the point where I though I would never find what I once had before.

And then I was introduced to The Canadian Tenors (www.canadiantenors.com). Let me preface this story by saying I am NOT an Oprah fan. But I turned on her show one day last month because my favorite singer, Celine Dion, was scheduled to appear. There was a time when Celine’s sweet, angelic voice could bring me to my knees, and even after 9/11, I still loved her voice. It just didn’t hit me like it used to. I knew she hadn’t changed; I had. So, I tuned in, and discovered the four men of The Canadian Tenors, who were under the impression they were on the show to highlight hot new acts. Instead, Oprah schemed to have Celine, their hero and inspiration as well, surprise them on stage to sing along on their hit song, “Hallelujah” (Cohen).

The instant (member) Fraser Walters opened his lips to sing, I stopped breathing. I didn’t need to breathe anymore because music streamed through my veins again and kept my heart beating through the entire song. Thinking it was a fluke; I downloaded their debut CD and have since felt emotions I haven’t felt in nearly nine years. Listening to these four amazing voices has left me smiling profusely, weeping with joy over the majestic sounds emanating from their vocal chords, striking my soul and returning me to the Throne Room as I did once before, and rejoicing in God’s handiwork. Their giftedness has allowed me to relax every inch of my body and rest, and believe me, that is not an easy task (hyper vigilance – another result of PTSD).

I wish I could say I have experienced the same emotions with other music but it hasn’t happened yet. But I am so thankful for what I have been able to feel through the music of The Canadian Tenors; so much so that I don’t ever want the feeling to end. Unfortunately, once the music stops, so do the emotions. But, wow – what a special, cherished gift I receive when I hear them sing.

Time to grab the MP3 player and return to the music.

The Wound is Still Fresh

I recently saw an interview with (former NY City) Mayor Rudy Guilliani. He mentioned that he thinks about 9/11 every single day. In many ways, so do I. For the people who were there, it is a wound that will never fully heal. And the Barack Obama Administration has decided to pick at the scab, open it up and pour in a ton of salt.

He claims innocence; that he didn’t know anything about it. But I just can’t seem to swallow that pill. How can the President of the United States NOT know what is going on with his own fleet of air planes? How could he be so not-in-the-loop about the photo shoot opportunity with an Air Force One back-up plane flying low to the ground over the skies of Manhattan? The point was to take pictures of the presidential plane with the Statue of Liberty as a backdrop. The citizens of New York were never made aware of the fly-over – which included an F-16 tailing the plane.

We don’t even need to go into the fact that this little photo op cost nearly $330,000, especially in light of these economic difficulties and the Obama administration (and Congress) railing against corporate CEO’s for using private jets for their travels. As one consultant put it, “This is more than a lapse of judgment. This is complete stupidity…”

It was also stupid on the part of the organizers to think this wouldn’t affect the citizens who witnessed 9/11 up close. News reports recount how dozens of buildings were evacuated while personal video’s show hundreds of people running in terror. I watched some of the video of this irresponsible act and, quite frankly, had a really hard time dealing with it.

The sound of the jetliner flying overhead, the angle of the plane as it passed so close to the buildings, the clear-blue sky. It was all too much like that Tuesday morning in September 2001. I can’t even begin to imagine the sheer terror that must have spread through the hearts and minds of those who had been through 9/11, wondering if it was happening all over again. The anxiety, the flashbacks. We’re still healing and were making good progress. But now this.

I have often thought the rest of America had already forgotten about 9/11. But it’s clear they haven’t. There is indeed outrage at the idiocy displayed by the administration and FAA, not just from New Yorkers but from folks all across the fruited plain.That’s because the wound is still fresh.