September 12

Each year, we remember September 11. We remember where we were when we heard the news. We remember how we felt. At least, most of us do.  

This year, as we remembered the 10th anniversary, I stood across the street from Middleton Fire Station #1 on University Avenue in Middleton, WI. With about a dozen strangers, I stood beside my son, age 11. 

We watched the firefighters in their dress uniforms, standing at attention. On speakers, we heard a collage of radio chatter from the day; people on the street in the moment, sharing what they saw; and songs written and performed when wounds were still fresh. 

The woman standing beside my son silently cried, and when she reached out to hold his hand, he took it, and then took mine. A row of strangers stood together, held hands, and remembered. It was okay to cry, and it was okay not to. It was okay to reach for the hand of a stranger, and you knew that stranger would take your hand, in exchange for a compassionate smile. 

For my son, it was the first time that September 11 became more than just a historical event.

After 45 minutes of silently taking everything in, he asked to leave. It was too much. The radio chatter, the interviews, the vivid imagery began to fill his mind with more than he could process. We returned to the car, and debriefed. 

I'm thankful that he agreed to return to hear the closing remarks. Rather than walking away lost in the images of the day, we finished the morning hearing Chaplain Sam Thomas remind us that we are alive, and that we still have time to leave a legacy. “What do you want your legacy to be?”

My son may not remember putting his little arms around me to comfort me as he watched his mama cry in 2001, but he will remember standing with strangers as they cried in 2011. 

We want our children to remember the importance of September 11; we want them to learn from it; but we don’t want them to be scarred by it. 

On September 12, 2011, my son was given a homework assignment: “What do you remember from September 11” or “What does September 11 mean to you?”

He began, “I don’t remember September 11. I was one year old…”

As I read the essay he brought to school the next day, my heart broke. To him, September 11 means that we have been at war for the life that he remembers. It means that we have lost even more lives in the War on Terror than we lost on September 11. He doesn’t remember the day; he has lived the aftermath, so he sees the aftermath as even more tragic than the day. 

Words like “horrible” and “tragic” logically found their way into his essay, and as I finished it, I realized that I, as a parent, had never taught him about September 12. 

September 12, 2001, was a day when we checked in with our neighbors, smiled at strangers, and went out of our way to be at peace with everyone we came across. If someone cut you off, was running late, forgot to call you back, whatever it was, it wasn't worth getting upset about. There were bigger issues. There were more important things. 

We knew that person had other things on their mind, and we extended grace. 

We were still in shock, and most people hadn’t gotten to the point of wanting revenge. We were living in the day; we were thankful for another day. We were connecting with our neighbors, and we weren’t taking our families for granted. 

We remembered to say, “I love you,” and “Thank you.” 

All of a sudden, the big picture was easier to see. People wore their hurt on the outside, and we all understood. 

On September 12, we were more patient with each other. We remembered that the people we saw were people, and we knew they were probably hurting. We treated them accordingly: with compassion, grace, and love. 

Ten years later, on September 11, we stand across from the fire station to honor those who lost, and those who gave, their lives. We silently offer a tissue when the tears start to slip down the cheeks of the stranger beside us.

And on September 12, we move on. We go back to work. We may remember, or even relive, September 11, but we rarely remember September 12.