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 Art of Healing: For Corry

Your mother is someone on whom you can trust. No matter how old you get, you’ll always be your mother’s daughter. This was true for Corry. Her mother was the one she could always count on, even when her impulsive streak took over, leading her down a path that could spell trouble. Her mother was the one she depended on for so much as she faced life’s ups-and-downs. Then her mother died, and Corry lost herself.

Her grief wouldn’t end there. She would lose her father, a brother and two sisters. She would face hard times as a business owner and as a surrogate mother to her nephew. Corry humbly says that, in comparison to some others, her life hasn’t been all that hard, but she has grieved, and she has become intimately acquainted with pain.

Corry’s relationship with her nephew, Maikel began to change when he told her about a performance he had seen on Oprah. He introduced her to the Canadian Tenors, who appeared on the show in January with another Canadian, Celine Dion. As Corry describes it, she was completely in love with them at first sight! She and her nephew now had a common interest, something to enjoy together.

Just three months after they watched the Tenors’ performance on Oprah, the two, who live in the Netherlands, were off to see the Tenors perform live. Corry says she was struck by how their personalities resonate through their voices, blending together to create a magical ambiance. As of this writing, she and her nephew have seen the Tenors in concert five times and will see them an additional four more times before the year is out with tickets to shows in Philadelphia, Washington, DC, New York, and Toronto. Did I mention they live in Holland?

Corry delights in the moments she gets to talk to Clifton, Fraser, Remigio and Victor after each performance. She believes their music has brought joy back to her life, and for that reason, this successful entrepreneur is willing to do whatever she can to support the Tenors in their rise to success.

To start, Corry has organized a Canadian Tenors Fan Day, which will take place in Almere, Holland on Saturday, October 23, 2010. The event, which will be held at Het Plein, will last from 12:00 pm until 7:00 pm, and is a fundraiser to help support the Bulembu Foundation, the charity for which the Tenors are ambassadors through Voices for Bulembu. Corry has been touched by the stories she has heard of the plight the citizens of Bulembu have faced as often told by the Tenors. As she says, “We know we can’t turn back time in Bulembu, but if everybody gives just one dollar, they will overcome their crisis.”

It is her hope that as Bulembu gets back to where it belongs, as a self-sustaining community, similar projects for other towns can begin. Corry’s mission is two-fold: Help the Canadian Tenors and support the vision of restoring the town of Bulembu.

She wants to open up the world to the music of the Canadian Tenors so the world can know the joy she has experienced. More exposure and success for them means more exposure and resources for Bulembu. As more resources are made available to Bulembu, they will be able to experience greater joy in their lives as well, also, in part because of the Canadian Tenors.

"Corry Puts with Fraser Walters and Victor Micallef of the Canadian Tenors"

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.

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?

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?

Getting Out of Gitmo

Most folks who know me know that I am passionate about politics. I am a hard core Republican and always enjoy a good debate with those on the left. Although she can be a bit over the top, I sometimes wish I had the tenacity and boldness of Ann Coulter.

A fellow writer and friend, Terrell Clemmons, recently asked people to chime in on their thoughts about President B. Hussein Obama’s executive order to close Guantanamo Bay. I thought long and hard about answering, thinking that my emotions would dictate the tone of my reply. But I realize that I can’t be quite about something that means so much to me and to so many others.

If I had the chance to chat with our dear president, I would ask him this: “Mr. President, do you know what it sounds like when an airplane crashes into a building? Do you know what 3,000 dead bodies smell like? Do you know what it’s like to sift through rubble – literally and figuratively – to find answers that may not ever be known; to analyze why you acted – or didn’t act – a certain way in the face of terror?” I know for certain that Obama’s reply would be no. No, because he wasn’t there.

To those questions I reply: I do.

I can recall the sound of American Airlines Flight 77 when it collided with The Pentagon as if it was yesterday. As a journalist covering the events of 9/11 from both Washington, DC and New York, I can still recount the stench of death and of jet fuel. The heat and flames and smoke rising from our bastion of protection still lingers in my mind’s eye. These are things that will never, ever go away.

Whether you agree or disagree with former President Bush’s decision to go to war in Iraq is irrelevant. I happen to agree with it and believe WMD were being developed under Saddam Hussein’s regime. We couldn’t find them but that doesn’t mean we don’t need to be there doing whatever we can to protect our country. This isn’t a debate about the Iraq war. The bottom line is that we are at war. September 11, 2001 proved to the entire universe that there are maniacal men and women who will stop at nothing to destroy us.

If we weren’t convinced on that day alone that we are waging a battle unlike any we’ve ever known, I don’t know what else will. But other terrorism acts followed. Thankfully our homeland has been safe since that dreadful day. Sadly, other nations haven’t been as lucky. Turn on the TV at almost any given moment and you’ll hear news reports of extremists declaring jihad – war – with America.

Does Barack Obama think these guys are kidding? Seriously. There is no end to their hatred of us. There is nothing we can do to convince them that we’re not as bad as they think we are. For starters, ours is a mostly Christian nation. That in and of itself is enough to wage a holy war with us. Second, we are allies of Israel, and we all know how many Muslim nations feel about this Jewish state. Basically, we’re toast where these wackos are concerned. (Note: I’m not at all suggesting that all Muslims are wackos or extremists.)

There are governing bodies and rules that determine treatment of enemy combatants. I get that. I also get that the folks locked up at Gitmo have been there for a long time without the pursuit of justice. I disagree with the delay. However, these enemy combatants, many of whom have documented proof against them of their involvment in Al-Qaeda and other such groups, do not have rights that supercede those of American citizens. The justice system we have in place, for all of its faults and failures, is still a good one. But we cannot win a war in a court of law. There is due process, and it needs to take place. However, as Andrew C. McCarthy recently wrote, “We owe only the process that is due in the particular circumstances. War and peace are not the same circumstance. The process due Americans accused of crimes in civilian courts is not the same as the process due foreign combatants and terrorists captured during military operations.”

The framework for trying war criminals is not the framework that is the civil judiciary.The Supreme Court reaffirmed in the 2004 Hamdi case to permit the detention of combatants if they are reasonably believed by our war-fighters to be aiding the enemy. We don’t need probable cause or proof beyond a reasonable doubt to detain them. And we already know that many (as reported by the Associated Press) who have been released from Gitmo have returned to their wicked ways.

Justice needs to be served and it needs to be served on behalf of the thousands of people affected by 9/11 and other terrorist acts throughout the world. Letting these enemy combatants get out of Gitmo is justice delayed and a personal invitation by our very own president to attack us at will.

The Day… Continued

Not long after the Pentagon was attacked, it was discovered another plane had been hijacked. Thanks to the bravery of those on board Flight 93, another building and perhaps thousands of lives were spared. By this point, some of the students had gone home; many simply felt helpless.

I, however, didn’t leave. In fact, I didn’t leave for nearly four hours. I couldn’t. I was simply paralyzed by fear. Almost as soon as the Pentagon was hit, I went back to the long assignment I had previously worked on reviewing the effects of weapons of mass destruction. It was clear that we were attacked. This was terrorism in our own backyard. I had talked to so many people about terrorism but none of them ever came up with this type of scenario. And none of them expected it to happen in our country. Moreover, I kept wondering what was on those planes. Were they done with the crashing of the planes or was there more to come with anthrax or some other WMD releasing into the sky as each plane exploded. I didn’t want to find out, so I stayed.

I called Mike, the CBN News Bureau Chief.

“I guess the interview is off, huh?” I said jokingly.

“You bet,” he replied. “But we need you. Get in here as quick as you can.”

Uh-oh. I had to come up with something. I wasn’t ready to cover this yet. I told him that I didn’t have any of my press passes with me and that most folks were being kept out of DC. Of course, none of this was true. I had my press passes, and I probably could have gotten into DC although it would have been hectic and it would have taken a few hours at best. But I didn’t want to go outside and the last thing I wanted to do was get stuck in a metal tube shooting under the grounds of a town that had just been attacked. Was the Metro next?

Mike agreed to let me come in the next morning to relieve those who would be working through the night on this unfolding story. I was relieved but felt incredible guilt. What in the world could I have done as a journalist covering this story? Nothing. Yet I still felt guilty. Maybe I felt guilty because I was just scared to death. I don’t know.

I finally decided to leave. My apartment was just about four miles from the school. It took me four-and-a-half hours to get home. Incoming traffic lanes were now outgoing lanes in an effort to relieve the decongestion from throngs of people trying to leave DC.

For a town filled with people stuck on themselves and unwilling to help, on this day nothing could be further from the truth. People waited patiently. It was hot – incredibly hot – so a few folks passed around bottled water, especially to those with little ones in the car. No one was a stranger as some cried openly on the shoulders of others as we stood in the streets waiting for the traffic jam to clear.

The thing I noticed most was the intense heat. It wasn’t exactly a hot day but the heat from the fire at the Pentagon made it even hotter. The black, billowing smoke continued to greet the crisp blue sky. It was visible from everywhere now. The smell of jet fuel floated through the air. Sirens blasted their urgency as they rolled through the streets transporting the injured.

Numb, I finally made it home and held Bojangles (the cat) close to my chest. I sat on the couch with him and watched the unfolding coverage. I wondered if Bo heard the sound. He must have sensed something because he seemed a bit jittery. But he also seemed to recognize my need for companionship at that moment. He rarely left my side. Not long after I had arrived, my friend from downstairs, Brooke, called to see if she could come up to my place. I was happy for the company but at the same token, I wanted to be alone. She cried in disbelief as we watched the coverage. Neither of us had family in the area and we both felt completely alone.

I can’t seem to recall where I first saw the video of the couple jumping to their deaths but I certainly recall everything about that image. It wouldn’t be the last time I would see that type of raw video. I remember watching them as they plummeted to their deaths from dozens of stories in the air and wondered how horrible it must have been inside that building for them to conclude that the better choice was to jump and die. No matter how hard I try, I can’t even begin to fathom that scenario. The other thing I remember about this couple was the look of peace on their faces. I don’t know if they were a romantic couple or office mates or just people who met for the first and last time. His tie floated up and to the side of his face. His arm never thrashed in an attempt to stop himself. He kept her hand in his the whole way down. Her skirt ballooned, and I secretly hoped it would cushion their fall. These are the images I see over and over again in my mind’s eye when I think back to that day.

I thought that was the darkest day of my life but, little did I know of the darkness that was yet to come.