Today, I am reminded of the horror.
Of the carnage and the shock, the body blow to our psyches, the assault on our senses amidst the confusion, the stunned disbelief that on such a clear, bright and beautiful day, our lives could be turned upside down by an insane act that would, without warning, irrevocably alter the course of our history.
And I am reminded of how we gathered together, huddled around radios and televisions, bonding together, family with family, friend with friend, strangers with strangers, as we absorbed the horrific details of that horrific day and, almost as a single voice, cried out that we would never, ever forget.
And, for a time, the wound would not, and could not, close, the process of healing denied, primarily the result of our adament and stubborn refusal to let it begin , as if our willingness to let it happen would somehow cheapen the sacrifice that had been made that day, would somehow lessen the honor we all felt was due the life lost, the pain suffered, the heartache inflicted.
With each passing year, the inevitable anniversary brought us around once again to the just as inevitable churning of raw emotion, the tearful return of harsh memories and the renewed passionate determination that we would never allow ourselves the selfishness of pretending that our lives could ever be what we once believed normal, in that time before our innocence was smashed, before our eyes were forced open to the harsh realities of this life by the heartless, hurtful, immoral insanity of this attack.
And on each of those anniversaries, the airwaves filled with tribute and remembrance, with minute by minute or hour by hour replays of the sounds and sights and screams of those terror filled moments of the day when death rained down on us from what had been, until that moment, just another tall building in an America filled with tall buildings, as if to not relive, through those sounds and sights and screams, every insane and gory detail of the horror of that day, we were somehow selfishly allowing ourselves to cheapen the sacrifice and lessen the honor due the life lost.
Inevitably, in time, the process of healing, as it always does, overcame our best efforts to prevent it and, at some point, the once almost instinctive need to relive the sounds and sights and screams, was gently and compassionately usurped by a sense that while we should, and would, never let the sacrifice made that day fade completely from our awareness, the raw reliving must come to an end, replaced by respectful and reverent remembrance, honoring life lost by lighting it up and not dredging it up; paying tribute by not screaming our pain but by sharing our passion, a passion for a way of life and adherance to principles that evil, in whatever form it takes or horror it inflicts, simply cannot, in the end, overcome.
On that day, our innocence was brutally taken away, our eyes forced open to the harsh realities of this life. And death rained down from a tall building that had, until that moment, been just another tall building in an America filled with tall buildings.
The Texas School Book Depository.
In time, the raw re-living of that day came to an end, replaced by respectful and reverent remembrance. A remembrance that, to this day, does absolutely nothing, to diminish or denigrate the honor due the life lost and sacrfice made, nothing to trivialize the horror that must cruelly be a part of every futile attempt that evil makes to overcome us, be it the brutal destruction of a naval base in the Hawaiian Islands on a peaceful Sunday morning...the cold blooded killing of an American president on a sun drenched Dallas street...or the obscenity of our own airliners used as weapons against us.
Today, I am reminded of that horror.
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