I wanted to write yesterday. My emotional tank was full of grief, love, sorrow, gratitude, and myriad other expressions that were amazingly still raw as I watched TV on the fifth anniversary of 9/11.
An old mother, her hair and eyes as grey as the sky overhead and the concrete she knelt upon, sobbed and sobbed. It was as if her tears alone filled the reflecting pool at Ground Zero. Tears that mixed with dirt and turned to mud five years ago still stain every New York City sidewalk where she had once enjoyed walking with her beloved son, an only child.
A five-year old girl in a summery yellow frock tossed a pink rose for a daddy she never got to know. Her mommy has told her many stories of how brave he was, how he put the lives of strangers ahead of his own.
A beautiful blonde reading a poem with incredible self-control. "How many times a day do I think of you?" She held back her tears. I could not. I began to think of my own beautiful blonde sister, Andrea, whose husband is in Iraq wearing camo and the American flag. The war on terror is personal in our family. Very personal. I hope Andrea never has to read this poem from personal experience.
My baby, now four and a half years old, asked why I was crying. I told him I was sad about what bad men had done with airplanes. How they hate Jesus and hate America. How they believe in their hearts that killing people is good because their god tells them they will go to heaven if they kill Christians. How Jesus let himself be killed for these bad men, and
by men just like them, and how we need to pray for them and their families. How they destroyed buildings and families. How they made most people feel less safe. How we need to forgive them because they didn't know what they were doing. How I remembered that he, my baby, was still in my belly on that September morning and I wondered if America would be a safe place for him to live like it has been for me.
In the evening I saw results of some polls asking Americans if they feel as safe, not as safe, or about as safe as they felt before 9/11.
My kneejerk reaction was, "About the same." I only feel "less safe" from terrorists when I stand in an airport or go into a huge stadium or drive over to the proving ground. None of those activities is something I do often. I feel as safe as I did five years ago, most of the time.
This afternoon I experienced a whisper of truth from the Lord, telling me why I feel as safe as ever. Rather, not why I
feel safe, but why I
am safe. The whisper? "I am always with you." If I weren't utterly convinced of that, I wouldn't feel safe driving from here to the gas station.
The Great I AM wasn't asleep on 9/11. He hadn't closed his eyes or folded His arms.
He wasn't absent. But He certainly gave the world a close-up look at what happens when He lets a little evil run its course. I say "a little" not to minimize the enormous human and material loss on that day, but because truly, in the Big Picture, the evil on 9/11 was a graciously small amount let loose on a country hell-bent on destroying life --without remorse. For a change, America got to mourn with God. Got to feel persecution. Got to see in-your-face rebellion. Got to see how sin ruins lives. Got to watch twin icons of mammon crumble into a heap of smoldering ash.
Yet, where sin abounded, grace abounded all the more. I heard a testimony of one woman who was trapped for 27 hours beneath the rubble. She had only a small space through which she could get air and light. She says she promised God all kinds of things if only He would get her out alive. When almost all her oxygen and hope were gone, she reached her hand up through a crack in the mess. Someone reached down and took her hand, said his name was Paul. He pulled her out and the next thing she knew she was at the hospital. She asked which of the team was Paul. They told her, "There's no one on the team named Paul." She is sure Paul was an angel.
Another young lady (I forget her name, so I'll call her Judy) said she had had many conversations with a co-worker named Carrie. The reason Carrie had moved to New York was to live her life the way she wanted. She would change later for God, maybe. Judy kept telling her she couldn't count on "later" and needed to get saved. Judy never called it "getting saved" at work; the code words were "get on the bus." When the first tower collapsed, Judy and Carrie escaped and ran with all their might, not being able to see their hands in front of their faces, the smoke was that thick. They ran as far as they could and finally spotted a place that might offer refuge. It was an NYC bus. Judy and Carrie finally caught their breath and all that was on Carrie's mind was getting right with God. Judy prayed loudly enough for everyone around to hear, in case they needed help surrendering and asking God for forgiveness and salvation. Carrie was the first one to pray. God, and God alone, knows how many others did.
Judy said it was four days later that she remembered where Carrie was when Christ saved her. She was on the bus. The two of them are eternally sisters, eternally grateful.
My husband Paul, who is in commercial insurance, used to speak frequently with Marsh agents who were in the World Trade Center. One of the women who survived still works for Marsh. Paul says five years later she is still "not all there" on the phone. It's like the shock and numbness never quite wore off. Her voice has a vacancy about it, a voice that used to sound energetic, controlled by a mind that could fully concentrate. "It's really sad, " Paul says. "Really sad. I don't know her, but I know she's different."
The air in America is still rife with pain and the smoke of evil. And America is still experiencing grace upon grace from God. For how long, though? How long will You relent, O God? How long will You have mercy on people who want to serve self, money, and other gods? How many more
Trade centers will have to burn? How many more Katrinas will you have to release upon modern-day Sodom and Gomorrahs? How long will you keep open the bus door?
Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth.
