My September 11, 2001

I turned 20 years old on September 11, 2001. I was a sophomore at Northwestern College, and the events of that day made a deep impression on me. In my own little life, God revealed Himself particularly on that dark day 11 years ago. Here's the story (written in 2004).

September 2001

It came the Saturday before my birthday, a cream envelope with Mary Englebreit’s pastel roses and a little blue watering can adorning the front. The handwriting for the address was my mother’s. I decided to save it, flipping it casually onto the stack of papers on my desk in my dorm room.

After all, I couldn’t open the card on the 8th; my birthday was still three days away.

Monday night, the night before my birthday, was a late one. The clock’s unblinking red numerals read 12:30 by the time I pulled on fuzzy blue pajama pants and a wrinkled Iowa Cyclones t-shirt in the bathroom, groggy and anxious to get to bed. Sarah was already asleep, and Jenny was still out in the end lounge reading psychology and eating popcorn. 12:30 a.m. I thought. It’s officially my birthday. I’m not a teenager anymore. The weight of two decades of existence seemed somehow momentous in the compact bathroom, and on an impulse, I dropped to my knees on the dingy navy blue rug. How melodramatic… I thought.

But since there was no one to laugh at me, I squeezed shut my eyes and whispered, “God, I don’t know what the future holds for me, but here I am, twenty years old. You take my life, the seconds and days of this year, and do something good in me. Bring glory to Your name. Amen.”

And then I went to bed, in the first hour of September 11, 2001.

* * *

When I was little, I used to dream about flying, about bungee jumping and sky diving. But my fascination with soaring alongside the birds was utterly squelched in my first personal flying experience. My senior class was going to Florida for our five-day senior-class trip in March 2000. We flew AirTran from Moline, IL to Atlanta, then down to Orlando. Unfortunately, we sat in the Atlanta airport for three hours while our plane underwent repairs. Besides becoming very unenthusiastic about the comforts of airport waiting areas, my confidence in our aircraft evaporated.

Seems like if you’ve got to work for three hours to fix something, it may be best to ditch the plane altogether…

We did eventually board, then sat there for another half hour while technicians fiddled around some more. Nerves made my stomach buzz like a hive of rattled hornets.

The plane finally started rolling down the runway, and my seatbelt was cinched around my waist as tightly as I could yank. Behind me, two guys from my class, both very experienced with flying, started muttering to each other.

“Look at those wings; they’re not supposed to flop up and down like that,” Danny sounded grim.

Josh, who was practicing for his pilot’s license, gave a concerned grunt of agreement. The plane bumped down the runway, thunking along faster and faster.

Danny leaned forward to speak in my ear. “Just so you know, this isn’t normal. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”

The hornets in my stomach whipped into a frenzy, and I wanted to puke. God, give me grace. God, give me grace. I would’ve cried, but I was too scared for any tears.

Out the window, lines and poles flashed by faster still, and the rhythmic bumping churned into high gear.

“This is it; this is where we die!” Danny leaned forward in morbid excitement.

I squeezed my eyes shut. God, give me grace!

Shuddering a little, the plane lifted laboriously and haltingly rose above the airport. My abdominal muscles did not unclench through the entire rocky flight.

Since the trauma of that first flight, planes have remained my worst fear.

* * *

I was sitting on our beige dorm room couch, eating a bowl of birthday Honey Nut Cheerios, when the news report on the radio announced that a small plane had run into the World Trade Center. My stomach gave a little half-shudder. Starting my 20th birthday with a plane crash. Great.

It was not until I got to my 8:40 class that more news emerged, shooting a panicked adrenaline through my body. It wasn’t just a plane hitting a building; it was two planes, exploding through the Twin Towers. This was not a case of malfunctioning flight mechanisms; it was premeditated, intentional. The damage was not a few caved-in offices; the two buildings had collapsed.

The day took on a nightmarish feel. Clusters of people were talking everywhere—war, a draft, terrorism, Al Quida. There would be more planes, I knew, unconsciously scanning the brilliant blue sky above as I walked to Maranatha Hall. This was the just the beginning.

In chapel, I looked around at the rows and rows of young adults who usually chattered and tackled each other and laughed their way from class to class. All these men may be gone tomorrow, thoughts clenched my mind in panic. Who knows but that this is the beginning of the third World War.

My dad. What was the maximum age of the military draft? Would they take my dad away from me, take him to fight and die overseas?

Ironically, the sun beamed as I carried my birthday lunch from Café Naz outside, alone. I was jumpy, ears straining for the sound of aircraft, bracing myself for attack. I bowed my head for a mechanical prayer. There is no God. my mind taunted me. You are going to die.

I avoided televisions. It was bad enough to know that thousands were dead. Men had called their families to say good-bye, they were going to die. I did not want the image of an airplane nose piercing the thin skin of a tower seared into my memory. There was no good news.

I spent an hour of my birthday evening praying, alone in an end lounge. God, don’t leave me here. Don’t desert me now. There was no answer but the buzzing of the lights overhead.

It was finally bedtime, just twenty-four hours after I had knelt in the dingy little bathroom to pray. Was this God’s answer? Would this year be punctuated with raw terror ripping through every enclave of my life?

The yellow and white checked bedspread didn’t seem heavy enough as I clambered into bed. The white dorm walls were almost transparent, frail against the black outside. I was almost under the covers when I saw the envelope on my desk.

My birthday card.

Desperate for some shadow of normalcy, I flopped out of bed onto the orange carpet and grabbed the card, climbing back onto the top bunk to read.

My mom’s smooth, curling writing filled most of the inside.

Dear Amy, it read.

My shoulders drooped against the wall, and I felt the clenched muscles relax slightly.

As I anticipate your birthday, my mind goes back to those days when I was anticipating your birth. I was a little nervous about getting your two older sisters settled in someone else’s care and making it to the hospital on time. (As it turned out, there was no real rush. )

My legs felt long and heavy, finally loosening to sink into the mattress.

When I went through my “refresher Lamaze” course to get ready for labor, I decided to use Isaiah 41:10 as a focus for my thoughts:

I hugged my pillow against my chest.

“Do not fear, for I am with you.
Do not anxiously look about you, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you, surely I will help you.
Surely I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.”

For a second, my breath caught, and I had to swallow and blink away a swell of warm tears.

That verse was a great reminder of my Father’s presence and help when you were born- And it has encouraged me other times since then. I pray you will experience the peace of knowing God’s presence and help throughout your life. You are such a joy to us…

Love, Mom and Dad

Fumbling for my Bible, my hands shook a little as I flipped the pages to Isaiah 41. The words were nestled there, straight lines in small, solid black text, as though printed precisely for this moment.

God is here, my heart trembled and quieted. God is here. And in little scrawling numbers next to verse 10, I penciled 9/11/01.