September 11

It is September 11. I rarely watch TV. The radio can't be tuned in inside our house. The car radio is often silent, difficult to hear over the constant chatter rising from the car seat in the back. And so it wasn't until I drove into town this morning that I remembered. The flag, of course, flies at half mast. But it is the thousands of tiny flags lining the walkway of every church, of every public space in the village, that truly mark the tragedy.

We all remember where we were when we first heard the news eight years ago. It is unlikely any of us will forget the collective shock, disbelief, horror, grief. I remember walking along the river that night. The world seemed utterly silent. No planes overhead. No trains along the track. Few cars on the nearby highway. Our world, in a moment, was shattered. It was hard to imagine we would ever recover, ever feel safe.

It is eight years later, and I think for most of us, life has largely returned to normal. It takes only the sight of a thousand tiny flags to conjure the fear, but day-to-day, a sense of security, maybe even complacency, has returned. But then September 11 rolls around again. It is tempting to just move on, painful to look back, but I make myself stop for a moment and think. I think of of the college friend who was on the top floor of the World Trade Center that day. His last words to his wife- an email sent from his phone - were printed in the New York Times on the first Memorial Day following September 11. I think of all those people. I think of all those families left with empty spaces. I think of the mothers and fathers whose sons and daughters board planes and head to conflict-filled lands - perhaps as soliders, perhaps as humanitarians or teachers - and try to imagine how they get through each day.

But I do not stop there. That is enough. But I cannot stop. I think of the mothers around the world who tuck their children in each night, praying that this night will not be the night a bomb falls on their home. I think of those who send their children off to school, anxious that they might step on an landmine or be swept away in some wave of rash violence on the streets as they walk the path from their homes to the school's front doors.

School started this week. I am anxious as my son crosses our busy country road to catch the bus. I fret with other mothers over what to pack for a snack and if school and soccer practice are just too much for a first grader. My life is good. My children have never gone hungry. Our water is clean. The roof over our heads has no holes. The gunfire we hear is from hunters off in the woods.

And so I try to be present. Present to all that I have. Present to what others have lost. And hopeful for a world that seems forever just out of our grasp.