It's September 11th, and my husband is on a plane to Chicago. This morning, when he mentioned where he was going, I asked, "Are you nervous about it?"
"At first, I was, but then I wasn't."
That pretty much sums up how we react to things. We feel the natural reaction, and then we decide to claim our power and rise above it.
Like everyone else, I remember Tuesday, September 11, 2001 and what I was doing (though not appropriate to share here) when David and I got the phone call to turn on the television. We pulled out our wood-paneled clunker from the closet and used a pair of pliers to turn it on. We were glued to the news for hours. What a beautiful release when my husband just after noon turned off the TV and said, "Let's go outside."
The sun was brightly shining and the neighbor's kids were happily playing outside. We were able to breathe again and renew our faith that life still goes on.
And this is how I feel about September 11th anniversaries. I know the pain still sears the hearts of those who lost a family member or close friend to the attacks. (I have a friend who was killed in the ensuing Afghan war, so I have some degree of understanding.) But I honestly believe there is way too much somberness attached to each anniversary. This gives power to the group of cowards whose desire is to instill fear and paralysis.
How I mark the anniversary is by going on with my life with continued resilience, power, and faith. So, when my husband tells me this morning he is getting on a plane today to Chicago, I feel he is a hero.
The rebel in me decides that no matter the attacks on my beliefs, my home, my outlook, I will respond with strengthened testimony, a holier family, and an undeterred hope for the future.
The smoke may billow and curtain the sun for a while, but the sun still is.