Remembering to Not Forget

When I was in high school, I attended a private Christian school. We had lived in that town for four years at this point, having car pooled with some friends since our arrival, since the school did not have a bussing system. It was one particular morning, rather a typical morning, when something changed. I was in the passengers seat of my mom's van, probably eating a pop-tart when our friends climbed in telling us that a plane had hit one of the Twin Towers in New York City. 

I remember thinking it wasn't possible. Those buildings were tall. How could someone, especially a pilot, fly into such a prominent building?

Two different planes had hit two different towers. I remember the highway we were driving on, talking to my mom about how absurd this was. Surely this was a mistake. Speculating on how this could happen, how maybe something was wrong with the plane, or maybe something was wrong the pilot, we continued our drive.

And then we heard there were two.

Two planes in two towers.

And panic set in.

My dad was in New York. His company was looking into putting one of their stores into the World Trade Center. He was in New York all the time that year and this one particular day was no exception. I can remember where we were on the highway when my Mom made her first phone call. I remember what she said:

"Hey, its me. I know you are okay, but I just wanted to make sure. Call me. I love you."

He didn't answer. She tried again but got the same result. Voicemail. 

We made it to school and I went to my biology class. The class was talking. Some people had heard, others hadn't. There was talk of a third plane going into the Pentagon. No one knew what was going on, so we headed down the hall to the 8th grade classroom to watch the news coverage. It was a blur of emotion and confusion, with no one really knowing what was going on. Soon we learned it was no accident. A fourth plane had been involved and it was all intentional. I don't even remember how long we stood there, watching the fuzzy images on tv, trying to make sense of the chaos.

Someone came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and told me my mom and older sister were crying at the bottom of the fire escape. I bolted out of the room, feeling truly afraid for the first time. I opened the door, looked down the flight of stairs and sure enough saw my mom and older sister holding each other. I don't remember how I got down those stairs, but I did.

When I reached the bottom my mom told me she had finally heard from my dad. He had been across the river at the time it happened. Sitting in his hotel room, he could see the cloud of dark smoke in the now changed skyline. 

He was okay.

It has been eight years since that day but I still think of it often. My dad, my family, we were lucky. But there were others who were not. There were others who never received the phone call from their loved one telling them they were okay. We were the lucky ones. We are the lucky ones.

So maybe we should remember, remember to not forget. In this time when our people are at war with each other and politics are a cause of conflict, there are people still hurting, parents still grieving, children still missing a parent, loved ones still longing. Freedom has come at a price. The price of love and loss. Lets remember to not forget that we lost nearly 3,000 people that day and there are brave men and women still fighting everyday to protect our freedom, to give others freedom. Maybe we can stand united, a thing that seems so hard to do right now, because someone had laid down their life for ours. Lets remember.

Lets remember to not forget.