Seven Years Later

Just as most Americans, I remember where I was and what I was doing on September 11th, 2001, when I first heard the news about the Twin Towers. I was on my way to class. That fall was the last semester of my M.Div. program at Trinity Evangelical Divinity School outside of Chicago, and I had an early morning class on Small Group Ministry. I had tuned in on WBBM 780 AM to get a traffic update for the Tri-State when I heard a report that something had flown into one of the towers of the World Trade Center. When I was a kid, I had read about a B-25 bomber flying into the Empire State Building in 1945. I wondered if something similar had happened and hoped that no one in the building was hurt.

When I stopped in at the White Horse on campus to get some coffee, I heard conflicting reports from other students. It was a small private plane, some said, implying that it was nothing for us to worry about. But someone else thought they had heard that the other tower had been hit as well. Uncertain what to think, I headed for class. And that is where I heard the truth from students who had cell phones: Two commercial airplanes had slammed into the Twin Towers. We were all badly shaken. After praying together, we proceeded with class. Afterwards I learned that the towers had collapsed.

I remember the images repeated over and over again on television. I had to force myself to turn the TV off and leave it off for several days, limiting myself to the evening news and getting information from news radio and the newspaper. I remember the initial catastrophic estimates for over 10,000 deaths. I remember Mayor Giuliani and President Bush at Ground Zero. I remember a sense of relief when the death toll began to fall till it was "only" 2999. I remember the sense of national outrage, and the swiftness of our national retribution in Afghanistan.

I now live on Staten Island, a borough of New York City, on which so many of the police officers and firefighters who died on 9/11 lived. I have members of my congregation who were at Ground Zero on 9/11 and have experienced long-term medical and emotional problems. One of the men of the church was a firefighter who went into one of the towers and never came out; his body was never found, and a small memorial to him is in the church's front yard. I have been to the memorials at Ground Zero and walked the periphery of that enormous pit. I have been to the "Postcards" Memorial on Staten Island many times. I have visited the Flight 93 Memorial. I have watched movies and documentaries. I have talked and prayed with men and women whose lives were forever changed and scarred.

And I have no idea what it was like or what they have been through.

I have had people close to me die, both friends and family. I remember the fear Chicagoans felt after 9/11 about our own skyscrapers. But after living here several years, I know enough to know that I do not understand the trauma that New York City has undergone. I do not understand the desire by some to reopen the old wounds every year. I do not understand how this city's swagger and in-your-face bravado exist side-by-side with a wounded psyche and lingering insecurity.

So that makes it very difficult to know the appropriate way to respond when 9/11 comes around every year. There are memorials and vigils throughout the city, and this remembering dominates the front pages of newspapers. But I was not here. Three years ago I asked the widow and sons of that firefighter what they wanted me to do that Sunday. They asked me please, please, please not to do anything other than pray. They wanted to move on. So I acceded. During the pastoral prayer, I prayed for families on Staten Island who were still hurting to find healing in Jesus Christ.

And that is still my prayer. Our God is still sovereign, though I do not understand His secret ways. He is still loving and kind. His Son still instructs us to forgive and bless those who harm us. And the same forgiveness and peace can still be found for all who call on His name.