I would have to echo the sentiments of several other blogs I recently read about 9/11 and the shock that seven years have slipped past. I remember sitting in early morning seminary and turning on the tv when only one plane had hit and then watching, mainly in confusion, as a second plane wrapped around to hit the second tower. I remember sitting in Soffe's class first hour and watching him sit on the table in the front of the room, Birkenstocked-feet dangling, crying. I remember not understanding how to feel or what impact this would really have on my 15-year-old high school world.
Bob and I were in New York last week and we went to the 9/11 memorial museum next to Ground Zero. If you're ever in the Big Apple, I would reccomend stopping by, it was an incredibly powerful place. They had giant beams from the towers, twisted like garbage bag ties from the heat and the pressure. There were cases full of things found at in the wreckage, like a menu from the bar on the top floor, two guns melted together, a laptop bag mostly intact from a floor above 100, and a battered fireman's helmet. What struck me the most, however, was a giant wall filled entirely with missing posters. All were handmade, with snapshots from some birthday party or recent vacation, and filled with details that betrayed the emotions of those searching. Answers to the nickname of Teddy; beautiful blue/green eyes; wearing a charcoal tailored pantsuit; if found please call one of these five numbers. It made me sick to my stomach and I stood there in an unfamiliar city standing next to the man I love, feeling the pain of the city, and wondering what it felt like to be there when it was in mourning.
As we left, Bob whispered to me, "After seeing all of this, I want to go bomb some terrorists." So did I, Bobby. So did I.