Every generation has an “I remember exactly what I was doing when ___” moment. For my grandparents’ generation, it was the bombing of Pearl Harbor, for my parent’s generation, it was the shooting of JFK. For me, it was 9/11.
I had awoken early that morning to go into school and grade essays (yes, I’m that teacher who assigns a writing assignment in the first few days of school). I’d told Amy I was going in to be alone so I could grade papers without anyone bothering me. It was just after 5:30 a.m. when my cell phone rang. I was standing at the front door of my school, arms loaded down with too much to carry, while trying to unlock the front door, and deal with the building’s alarm. I was not happy the phone was ringing.
“What?!?” I snapped into the phone, thinking I was justified for not wanting to be bothered…I mean, I had told her as much.
“Turn on the news.” Click. There was no angry response, just a flat, simple direction. I huffed into the building, opened my classroom, and dropped everything on my desk without ceremony. Grimacing, knowing that turning on the internet would be my demise, that I wouldn’t get papers graded, I switched on the monitor and booted up my desktop. What I saw put me in my place immediately. I was watching live as the second tower was struck…as the mobs of people were running for their lives…as the nation stopped.
I don’t remember my apology word for word, but I do remember my gracious wife answering the phone and talking with me for the next hour while we watched simultaneously in horror.
“I thought you’d want to know,” she said at last. “I didn’t want you to not be aware when your students arrived.” I was flabbergasted. My irritation was so petty compared to the devastation and acts of heroism happening before my eyes on the screen.
“I love you, Honey,” I managed. “Thank you.” Then I realized God’s hand in the whole mix. “Why are you up so early?” I asked, pretty much knowing her response. Amy was anything but a morning person.
“I was laying in bed and something woke me up. It heard a loud crash in the living room and went to investigate. When I turned on the lights, I couldn’t find the reason for the noise. I grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch and snuggled into the recliner while turning on the TV.”
I sighed. It was clear to me that God had awoken my wife, in order to alert me, so that my fleshly agenda could be set aside for His purpose. We didn’t “do school” much that day. In fact, as my students – from Heritage Christian School – poured into the building, we went into “crash cart” mode, as we called it. TV’s were turned on and we watched the other accounts come pouring in: the grounded plane that never took off, the Pentagon tragedy, and the United Airlines flight 93 crash.
That evening, Amy and I tried to entertain a toddler while being glued to the television awaiting any rhyme or reason.
Every year I’ve taught since, I’ve spent a day reliving those events, sharing with students, and talking about heroes. Heroes, without capes. Like the telephone operator who talked with a man on one of the planes that flew into the towers – and recorded the conversation so that his wife and family could hear his last words. Like the hundreds of first responders who charged into the rubble without a care for their own safety, some to be claimed by the on-going tragedy. Like the men and women of United flight 93 who charged the hijackers in the cockpit and possibly saved thousands of lives at their own expense. Each year, at one point, I get so choked up I can barely make a sound. As I struggle to find my voice, my tears inform students that I’m a little more human than they previously thought. I hate crying in front of my students because I’m never sure I’ll be able to stop once the tears begin to fall. I am, however, okay with the message this specific lesson brings to my students.
Standing in front of a generation who doesn’t remember that travesty, but who has “heard all about it year after year”, is a bit daunting. Especially on days like today when one 8th grader raised a hand and said, “But the hijackers were heroes…at least to someone who believed they were right.” There were more than a handful of students who supported that argument, one even went so far as to say America deserved the attack: “The American people were self-righteous and complimentary to the men who created the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. And America still is happy they won that war.” Only God could have directed my words at that moment because my flesh was speechless. Both statements had an ounce of truth in them, but both were missing more than either student could comprehend.
I heard the words which poured from my mouth as if I were listening to them, not saying them myself: “When the purpose is to claim as many lives as possible in the name of Religion – no matter the Religion – the act is evil and the perpetrators are anything but heroes.”
It’s been over 10 hours since that conversation, and I’m still affected by it. As this night winds down, I am caught by the juxtaposition of a generation of Americans who are grieving, being watched by a generation of Americans who are struggling to define terms that society now says are “up to the individual to define” – the same generation who have resorted to posting “funny” memes about the worst terrorist attack on US soil. I pray I have the wisdom to look at my students tomorrow and show them the love of their Creator, even if they do not know or accept Him at this point.
Good Grief?!? 