15 years ago we woke up to a ringing phone and images of 1 1/2 twins towers, the half billowing smoke but not yet fallen. Through the morning my long-awaited toddler played as I sobbed and watched a second tower hit, panicked people jump from windows high, then the towers fall. As the day unfolded, I relayed news of two additional plane crashes to my husband at work. For three solid days I cried and seriously wrestled with God over the issue of should we continue to bring more lives into this broken world or not.
We learned my husband's aunt was initially scheduled to have been on one of those planes and got bumped. Being on the west coast of the country, we were slightly insulated from the trauma in the sense that not every single person here knew someone who died that day, but the tragedy was massive enough that everyone here had at least one loved one they worried over until safety was confirmed. There was still enough communal loss that the churches were packed for week and flags flew abundantly and high. Rick's grandma, who lived next to the airport, lived under eerily quite sky for days.
Since that day, life has carried on. That baby is about to get his driver's licence. We have been blessed with two more living miracles here on earth. My husband has changed jobs twice. We have changed houses. We just celebrated that aunt's 70th birthday and she and her husband had another very near-miss going through the airport in Turkey just before the recent bombing there. (My husband and son were in the same airport two years prior!)
I've published my first book. My father-in-law has battled cancer epically. My mother has given us a sound hospital scare. I've survived a traitoris immune system that tried to abandon me a decade ago. I've survived a chiropractic accident leading to six strokes. A year ago today I had massive abdominal surgery for feminine pain and a renegade appendix.