September 11

You didn't get through today without being reminded of that awful fall day in 2001. This is my 9/11 story:

I was working as a long-term substitute in second grade. The elementary school in which I was teaching is located in northwestern Pennsylvania. In a minute, you'll understand the significance.

The weather in northwestern PA was as beautiful that day as it was in New York City - a clear, bright blue sky. I remember taking deep breaths of the fresh air that morning and thinking about how summer was too quickly fading away.

At about 9:20 that morning, a call came over the school's intercom system. The principal asked one teacher from each grade level report to the cafeteria regarding a matter of national security.

There were three second grade classes in our wing and mine was the overflow class. I had only 12 children in my room, so consequently, we were like a little family. Because my class was so small and it was easier to shuffle them to another classroom, I was elected to go to the cafeteria.

Once we were all assembled, the principal told us what happened. Of course, the early reports stated only one tower had been hit. She told us we were permitted to tell the children, in terms they could understand, without frightening them. On the way back to my room, my eyes filling with tears, I thought about what I should say to the eight-year-olds who would know - by the look on my face - how serious this was. I pulled myself together, called my fellow teachers out into the hall and explained what I knew. Then, it was time to tell the kids.

By this time, I had managed to hold off the tears fairly well, so I was able to calmly tell them what had taken place. I told them some people had flown a plane into a very tall building and we were worried about the people in the building and on the plane. They soberly listened to what I had to say and then hands started popping up. I answered their questions as truthfully as I could, but the one question that has stayed with me all these years was this one:

"Was my mommy in that building?"

In their little eight-year-old minds, New York City was only fifteen minutes away and the World Trade Center was a place where their mommies or daddies might work. It struck me that while I was telling them what happened and answering their questions, some of them were sitting there, sick with worry, thinking about the fate of their parents. I wanted to hug all of them as I quickly reassured them that no one's mommy or daddy was in the building.

Lesson plans gathered dust as we talked and worked together to try to make sense of why someone would do this to innocent people.

Over the next few weeks, I taught them a number of patriotic songs and, at the end of the day, they loved to stand at the open door, lined up for the bus, and sing for all they were worth. Patriotism was born in those children that day. One small bit of good that came out of the horror and awfulness.

Hug your children. Pray for your loved ones. Never take for granted the many blessings you have in your life. And.... remember 9/11.