**I would have posted this earlier, but I've been in bed all day with what I think is strep throat ... sadly, I saw nothing this morning on the morning shows about 9/11, just brief blurbs. Sad, sad.**
Seven years ago today, my heart held its breath.
Like everyone recalls, it was a beautiful morning. With a French vanilla coffee freshly dispensed from the dorm café’s fake espresso machine, I had settled at my desk inside the campus accounting office, ready to file reports, as was the usual routine each Tuesday. I occasionally glanced up at the TV hanging just beyond my seat that blared CNN Headline News, a station that tended to repeat itself every half-hour.
I was about two weeks into my third year at Western Michigan University, eager to become an expert in the journalism field, a major I had decided to change to the previous spring. I was thankful to be returning to my cushy job in the administrative building that paid pretty well and allowed me to work on my homework when my handful of responsibilities were completed. I was also thankful that if I wanted, I could go home on the weekends. It was a luxury I had not been afforded for my first two years of college because my parents had moved to Washington, D.C. after I graduated from high school. My dad was assigned to the Pentagon, and after that, he was going to retire. Over the summer, he and my mom found a home about 40 miles north of Detroit, close to my grandmother. My dad helped us move in, and then headed back to D.C. to finish up his career through October.
When I looked up at the TV that morning, it was only because I had heard a commotion. Our office was the only one that had a television, so employees from other departments and students in line to pay bills were staring up intently at the screen, watching the North Tower of the World Trade Center burn. I stood up and walked a little closer as the other viewers speculated about the cause. Then, there was the explosion in the South Tower. I know we all stood in shock as we realized that what was going on was far more than an accident. The crowd began to disperse about a half-hour later, and as they did, I caught a sentence scrolling down along the bottom of the screen that made my whole body go weak: “Fire reported in Pentagon.” I spoke up, rather loudly, asking if any of the women I worked with had seen that. Then the station flashed the picture. Smoke was billowing out of the building that was supposed to be untouchable. My boss, Liana, said to me, “It’s good your dad isn’t there anymore.” I gave her a blank stare, cried out, “Yes, he is,” and began to hyperventilate. Liana and my friend Jackie rushed over to my desk and walked me to the bathroom, splashing water on my face and trying to calm me. Then we went to Liana’s desk and dialed my mom. She was nearly speechless and didn’t want to talk to me. Since Flight 77 had crashed into the building, she had been bombarded with calls — and none of them were from my dad.
Inside the Pentagon, he had been walking to get a Starbucks when he felt the massive structure shake. He thought it may have been a bomb after briefly seeing what had happened in Manhattan. And then there were rumors about a plane. My dad tried to call my mom, but he couldn't get through. People began to evacuate and out on the lawn, my dad and a group of men had taken their shirts and soaked them in water to cover their faces, ready to head back inside the burning building to look for survivors. But the flames and the fumes were too strong.
The plane had hit the recently renovated section of the Army side. That meant that there were fewer people when it struck. Still, my dad knew a few who had been killed, mainly secretaries. One of the men who survived almost didn’t, and suffered terrible burns all over his body. He wrote a book. It was fascinating.
One thing my dad noted: when he was out on the lawn that day, everywhere he looked he saw a military chaplain. Everywhere. It turned out there had been a conference that week ... or God just knew there would be a need for some guardian angels.
Back at Western, I ran to my room and tried to get my little brother to come over and sit with me while I watched the news. We still hadn't heard from my dad. I laugh still when I remember his response: "Amy, I have to go to class. Dad would want us to go to class." Then classes throughout campus got cancelled. He came over, but stayed only briefly. I guess it was his way of dealing with the unknown.
My dad finally reached my mom around 11:30 that morning. And we all began to breathe again.
I still find my dad heroic for his attempted efforts that day — and all of those who tried with him. Today is a constant reminder to me of how easy it is to take people for granted ... and so I don't take this anniversary lightly. It's something I'll never forget.
Seven years ago today, my heart held its breath.
Like everyone recalls, it was a beautiful morning. With a French vanilla coffee freshly dispensed from the dorm café’s fake espresso machine, I had settled at my desk inside the campus accounting office, ready to file reports, as was the usual routine each Tuesday. I occasionally glanced up at the TV hanging just beyond my seat that blared CNN Headline News, a station that tended to repeat itself every half-hour.
I was about two weeks into my third year at Western Michigan University, eager to become an expert in the journalism field, a major I had decided to change to the previous spring. I was thankful to be returning to my cushy job in the administrative building that paid pretty well and allowed me to work on my homework when my handful of responsibilities were completed. I was also thankful that if I wanted, I could go home on the weekends. It was a luxury I had not been afforded for my first two years of college because my parents had moved to Washington, D.C. after I graduated from high school. My dad was assigned to the Pentagon, and after that, he was going to retire. Over the summer, he and my mom found a home about 40 miles north of Detroit, close to my grandmother. My dad helped us move in, and then headed back to D.C. to finish up his career through October.
When I looked up at the TV that morning, it was only because I had heard a commotion. Our office was the only one that had a television, so employees from other departments and students in line to pay bills were staring up intently at the screen, watching the North Tower of the World Trade Center burn. I stood up and walked a little closer as the other viewers speculated about the cause. Then, there was the explosion in the South Tower. I know we all stood in shock as we realized that what was going on was far more than an accident. The crowd began to disperse about a half-hour later, and as they did, I caught a sentence scrolling down along the bottom of the screen that made my whole body go weak: “Fire reported in Pentagon.” I spoke up, rather loudly, asking if any of the women I worked with had seen that. Then the station flashed the picture. Smoke was billowing out of the building that was supposed to be untouchable. My boss, Liana, said to me, “It’s good your dad isn’t there anymore.” I gave her a blank stare, cried out, “Yes, he is,” and began to hyperventilate. Liana and my friend Jackie rushed over to my desk and walked me to the bathroom, splashing water on my face and trying to calm me. Then we went to Liana’s desk and dialed my mom. She was nearly speechless and didn’t want to talk to me. Since Flight 77 had crashed into the building, she had been bombarded with calls — and none of them were from my dad.
Inside the Pentagon, he had been walking to get a Starbucks when he felt the massive structure shake. He thought it may have been a bomb after briefly seeing what had happened in Manhattan. And then there were rumors about a plane. My dad tried to call my mom, but he couldn't get through. People began to evacuate and out on the lawn, my dad and a group of men had taken their shirts and soaked them in water to cover their faces, ready to head back inside the burning building to look for survivors. But the flames and the fumes were too strong.
The plane had hit the recently renovated section of the Army side. That meant that there were fewer people when it struck. Still, my dad knew a few who had been killed, mainly secretaries. One of the men who survived almost didn’t, and suffered terrible burns all over his body. He wrote a book. It was fascinating.
One thing my dad noted: when he was out on the lawn that day, everywhere he looked he saw a military chaplain. Everywhere. It turned out there had been a conference that week ... or God just knew there would be a need for some guardian angels.
Back at Western, I ran to my room and tried to get my little brother to come over and sit with me while I watched the news. We still hadn't heard from my dad. I laugh still when I remember his response: "Amy, I have to go to class. Dad would want us to go to class." Then classes throughout campus got cancelled. He came over, but stayed only briefly. I guess it was his way of dealing with the unknown.
My dad finally reached my mom around 11:30 that morning. And we all began to breathe again.
I still find my dad heroic for his attempted efforts that day — and all of those who tried with him. Today is a constant reminder to me of how easy it is to take people for granted ... and so I don't take this anniversary lightly. It's something I'll never forget.
3 comments:
God, I remember that morning all too much... I also remember you coming back and calling your Mom and your brother. I was already back from class in Sangren.
I have been thinking about your parents all day today. I remember the night they told us about the events of that day. They are the first people I had met that were impacted directly by the events of that horrid day. I just thank all of our men and women in the armed services
Hello Amy, I have an alert on Google Blogs for the Pentagon or for Chaplain so I can be aware of what people are saying out there in cyberland. Thus, your blog came up today. My name is Ch (COL) William "Whiz" Broome and I am the Pentagon Chaplain. On 91101 I was assigned to the Chief of Chaplain's office at the Pentagon as the Assignment Officer for Chaplains. We were in Crystal City, in Arlington, when we saw the Pentagon on TV and looked out the window of our offices and saw the smoke. Four of us, all chaplains, ran to the Pentagon and spent the day and night ministering to the people there. I will never forget one dear lady who was running away from the Pentagon with group of people and she asked me if the world was coming to an end. I assured her it was not and tried to give her some comforting words as we ran. Many at the Pentagon would not leave until that night waiting to hear word about a friend or loved one inside that never came out. It was a surreal day and I will never forget watching the Pentagon burn for over 30 hours. You are correct that there were more chaplains at the Pentagon that day then probably in the history of the Pentagon. There was a large conference with senior chaplains, just the ones who would know what to do in a disaster such as this. Many with combat experience; I was a helicopter pilot in Viet Nam and many memories came back to me that day. I do believe God was there and Romans 8:28 tells us He does love us and will make the best of the worst for those who love Him. It was a miracle that only 184 people died. The plane was not full and the part of the Pentagon that was hit was newly renovated and enforced and was not fully occupied yet. People were still moving in so there were not as many as normal. We serve a great and loving God and He covers us with much more grace than we deserve thru His Son, Jesus Christ. Thanks for your faithful service to God and Country, Blessings, Whiz
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