9-11-01

Tuesday morning. I hadn’t been listening to the radio. Not watching television. I was having a great morning with my sweet sixteen month old boy.

I was actually early, pulling into the parking lot of the church where I taught two year olds at a mother’s day out program. Several of the moms were already there, still sitting in their cars, engines running. The shady parking lot was just beginning to gather fallen leaves from the canopy of oaks.

I stepped out of my car and noticed the mother in the black SUV next to me. She had her hand to her mouth, eyes wide, unseeing. I don’t remember her name, but her son was in my class. She must have noticed me noticing her. She rolled down the window, keeping her eyes locked on the nothing in front of her. I smiled and asked her, “Are you okay?” Finally she turned to me, eyes still wide, she asked, “Don’t you know?” and turned up her radio. Then the second plane hit.

The rest of the morning is a blur. I don’t remember much about the activities of the day, just feelings. Being anxious to leave. Anxious to hear news about what was happening, and what was being done about it. We spent that day with our precious young students, trying to pretend that everything was normal. We were cut off, going through the motions. We couldn’t listen to the news reports. If we became upset, which we certainly would, it would upset the children. They were just babies. Innocent children. They couldn’t process this, or our disbelief, sadness, worry, outrage. As soon as the children were picked up, I rushed home to see the news.

That night, our church had a service. I was working for our preschool at the time, and we didn’t know how many children to expect. Did the word get out about our service that night? Would people know that they could come here, and lay their burdens down before the Lord? We readied our classrooms and hearts to receive whoever would come.

As the time neared, I stood by the window, facing north. The sky looked so strange, empty. Normally, the children would stand at that window and count airplanes cutting their way through the sky to and from DFW International. But now, and for days to come, it was blank. Eerie.

My eyes fixed on a sight that brought both sorrow and gladness. The first car, winding its way along the drive and through the gate at the far end of the lot. Followed by another car. And another. And another. The cars streamed into the parking lot, carrying hurting souls to the church for their appointment with the Great Physician. So many hurting. So many coming to be healed. Coming to the right place.

In that moment, I was filled with gratitude: for my country and her people who refused to be paralyzed by fear, and for my church, whose people stand, hearts open, with one hand Up and one hand Out, to praise the Lord and embrace the broken.

Persecuted, but not forsaken;
Struck down, but not destroyed.
II Corinthians 4:9

He heals the brokenhearted
And binds up their wounds.
Psalm 147:3