9/11

A decade. It’s hard to believe that it’s been a decade.

Like everyone, I remember where I was on 9/11. It’s the tie that binds so many of us together, the shared confusion and heartache of that day.

On 9/11/2011, I was a sophomore in high school. I was walking into 2^nd period, Mr. Malinsky’s geometry class, when I noticed that the television was on and the class was watching the news.

“What happened?” I asked a classmate.

“A plane flew into the World Trade Center,” he replied.

Even at fifteen, I simply didn’t know what or where the World Trade Center was. My classmate told me that the buildings were in New York City, where I had visited less than a year before. I’m sure that at that point, I had no idea the seriousness of what had happened.

As more planes crashed, rumors flew. One rumor was that a plane was headed to Chicago. My mom had worked in downtown Chicago for years, and that day was no exception. I was anxious to call my mom during my lunch period, which was around 11:00. I used the pay phone in the cafeteria and called my mom’s work number. When she didn’t pick up, I tried to keep it together. I dialed my house number and my mom picked up. I breathed a sigh of relief as she said, “My building was evacuated right away, honey.”

I remember spending much of the afternoon sitting on our living room couch, watching news footage with my parents, who were not yet divorced at the time. I remember hugging my three younger brothers tightly that night.

Tuesday night was youth group night, and that particular Tuesday was no exception. My mom dropped me off and was invited to stay by our youth pastor, who said that many of the church members had gathered to pray together. My mom stated that she wanted to continue watching the news coverage but thanked him for the invitation. I remember that my eyes searched the parking lot for my boyfriend at the time; I was desperate for him to embrace me. As if that would stop the confusion or ease my aching heart.

I don’t remember what I prayed for that night at church. The families who had lost loved ones? The families who didn’t even know that they’d lost loved ones, and wouldn’t for days, some even weeks? Wisdom for our government? Safety for the workers? Shelter and food for those displaced?

As a fifteen-year-old girl, I probably didn’t think about a lot of those things. I was probably more worried about whether the high school would cancel the upcoming homecoming dance or whether the news would delay my favorite shows. This is embarrassing to admit, because it speaks volumes about my character and focus at the time.

But if the attacks happened today, instead of a decade ago, what would I, as a 25-year-old, pray?

I’d pray for hope. Hope for the hurting, hope for the helpless. I’d pray that every need was met and every displaced person would be sheltered and fed. I’d pray for my enemies, I’d pray for the lost, I’d pray for a brighter tomorrow for everyone. I’d pray for strength and peace for the devastated. I’d pray for God to relieve the ache from every burdened soul.

It’s what I should have been praying all along.

And every day.