I remember it clearly

I remember it clearly.

I drove my little blue Honda civic to school just like I did every morning. But this morning was a little different.  It was a Tuesday and on a regular Tuesday, I would have had to be at dance team practice early in the morning. It was the middle of football season, after all. But this Tuesday, I got to sleep in a little bit because the class of 2002 was meeting before school to take our large panoramic class picture. As I pulled into the parking lot, I heard over the radio that a plane had hit one of the twin towers in New York City. As a pilot’s daughter, I felt sad for the pilot who I assumed had gotten confused or lost and accidentally flew his small Cessna the wrong way.

Boy, was I wrong.

Since cell phones were a newer technology, most teenagers my age didn’t have one. They certainly didn’t have access to 24/7 news and social media like our teens have now. We had little outside contact, so most of the school had no idea what was happening that morning in New York City. It wasn’t until first period that our principal came over the announcement system to share the news.  Teachers wheeled in their TVs… you know, the ones that are on those large metal carts. (I think we still have some of those stashed in closets around the church.) We saw the graphic images of destruction and death happening in real time.

I remember my fear-the fear of wondering where my dad was, the fear of not knowing if he was alive. Was he flying that morning? How would I contact him to find out? Were there other planes involved? I remember the fear of not knowing what all of this violence meant for the world, for my world. At 17, it wasn’t something I knew how to process. I just sat in shock alongside my classmates.

Thursday marks the 25th anniversary of the terrorist attacks in New York City, DC, and in a field in Pennsylvania.  And while my dad was safe and wasn’t flying that morning, so many lives were lost. So much was lost. It’s a day that changed our world forever. Do you remember where you were that morning? I still hard to understand the senseless violence that happened on that day. And yet, we keep moving forward, despite the many heartbreaking events that happened that day and are currently happening on the daily: ICE agents unlawfully detaining our neighbors who are just trying to live their lives, wars being waged in the name of national security, climate disasters destroying communities. You can name so many more. 

It can be hard to emotionally keep up with the grief and pain we are experiencing as a collective.  It can also be extremely tempting to harden ourselves so that we don’t have to feel that grief, to keep it from infiltrating our own emotional capacity. Whatever your capacity, God is present in those spaces. God grieves with us, even if we can’t articulate those feelings.  For me, when grief overcomes me, I look to the words of writers and poets who comfort me when I’m sacred, alone, unsure, and grieving. 

The psalm writer in 34:18 describes God’s care for us when we are grief-stricken: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he saves those whose spirits are crushed.” It brings me comfort to know we have a God who is not immune to grief and sadness but has compassion on us. Even if we are deep in darkness, God is still there, as promised in Psalm 139: 7-10: “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast.” 

And finally, I find solace in the words of poets like Steve Garnaas-Holmes: 

What Are You Afraid Of?

    Dread of the future is sometimes justified—
but be wary: it wants to kidnap the present.

Sometimes fear is grief anticipated.
You can’t enjoy your friend, fearing their leaving.

Grief is love made powerless,
left with nowhere to fly.

But love is in you, not its object,
still strong and winged, and wise to the air.

Your fear can tell you what you love,
and those wings lift you —

not stacked, afraid of toppling,
but aloft, and present to the winds.

You are not captive to your fear.
You carry it, like a costly treasure.

May we remember the promises of God to carry us through the grief of our shared memories of the past, our present fears and worries, and all our unknown and anticipated future grief. 

Written for the enews for First Baptist Church of Austin, publication date Sept 9, 2026.