All of us who lived through the horror of September 11th, 2001 feel the collective sadness of that day. Our hearts broke. We felt violated. Angry. Afraid. And, of course, we will all remember the moment when we realized what was happening. Life truly did change as a result of that one day. We still suffer. And we still prevail. We still grieve. And we still overcome.
The work of healing began on September 12th, 2001. Grief, as a process, never ends. It simply evolves. Anniversaries generate healing and pain; both at the same time. At other times, our feelings ebb and flow. The process of grief begins at the realization of loss. On September 11th, we watched in horror and disbelief. On September 12th, we awoke to the reality of what had happened.
On September 12, 2001 we stumbled about in our pain and anger and confusion and tried to figure out how to live. How could we possibly ever feel normal again? Tucked into all that emotion was one simple experience that highlighted the need for normalcy when nothing seemed normal. It provided hope. It didn’t change the world or make the tragedy go away. It didn’t minimize any of the confusion.
It just simply was.
My oldest child, Charles, was nearing 13 at the time, and he was being home schooled. Part of that schooling experience included volunteer work. I felt strongly that giving to others was equally as important as geography or spelling. Even before the events of September 11th, I tried to teach my children that becoming a good citizen of the world is as important as knowing algebra. As part of his schooling, Charles volunteered at the local library one day a week.
His day to volunteer fell on September 12th. Charles had been deeply affected by the events of the previous day. Being a highly intelligent, sensitive, and emotional young man, the terrorist attacks on the United States were equally as devastating to Charles as they had been to any adult. But, since Charles was in the process of crossing that life-bridge from childhood to adulthood, the vulnerability of it all seemed even more pronounced. The loss of innocence was profound.
Charles kept his commitment to volunteer at the library and was assigned to work with the children’s librarian during story time. The focus of story time was a series of books by Norman Bridwell about Clifford the Big Red Dog. The children’s librarian planned to read a few of Bridwell’s books and have Charles dressed in a Clifford the Big Red Dog costume to entertain the children.
Adults lined the wall of the children’s library while their kids heard the stories. The librarian bravely read the stories as enthusiastically as if this were any other September story time. The children listened and then…TA DA…Clifford made his grand appearance. Children jumped and clapped and squealed and ran up to Clifford the Big Red Dog. Charles, as Clifford, engaged each child with a wave or a hug or a high five. The kids were delighted! Their laughter punctuated an otherwise dark day.
One by one, the adults who observed, started to cry. Quietly. Every adult stood by and watched as their child became lost in the joy of being a child.
The children’s joy was so simple. So easy. So natural. Too young to comprehend what had happened the day before, they likely felt some of their parent’s sorrow, even if they were unable to attach meaning to it. But there, on that day when it felt like the entire world had fallen apart, my son donned a hot, red, fuzzy costume and an oversized floppy-eared dog head and brought joy into the lives of a handful of children.
There was hope.
Hope in the librarian who bravely forged ahead with normalcy for the children who needed it. Hope in the adults whose tears fell as they knew life had to go on. Hope in a serious, shy, 12-year old young man who carefully attended to every child in the room even in the midst of his own heartbreak. And hope in a handful of children who still had time to learn love and forgiveness, even as the world would never be the same.
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