On September 11, 2001, Mrs. Boyce abruptly stopped her math lesson and turned on the TV, which was weird because that TV hardly ever came on. She didn't really say anything, and we just sat and watched. We were a bunch of rowdy 5th graders, who couldn't sit still for the duration of the ABC's, and we just watched. In silence. All I could really comprehend is that there was a plane crash. And that everyone was silent.
I was mesmerized by the images on the TV when Mrs. Gines' tired voice came over the intercom. "Mrs. Boyce? Will you send Jenna to the office. She will be leaving at this time."
My teenage brother, who seemed like he didn't speak 10 words in the span of a day, met me out in the hall. Michael hugged me, for what seemed like an unusual amount of time for my reserved brother. He was with McKay, my younger brother, who was in second grade at the time. Michael simply said, "Dad is going to New York for awhile. We need to go home and spend some time as a family."
McKay and I had no idea what was going on, but we understood that it was a somber moment. All three of us were silent on the way home. It was cold and overcast that morning. The rain shouldn't have been that loud on the windshield. The wind shouldn't have been that strong. And for a reason that I did not yet comprehend, I started to cry.
When we got home, my Mom was sitting on the couch, quietly folding a pile of my Dad's work clothes and packing an unfamiliar red bag. The TV was apparently turned to the same channel we were watching at school because the same plane crash was being shown over and over again. My sweet Mom smiled at us, got up and gave us all a hug. "How was school this morning?"
What? How was school?! I started to cry again. I needed to know what was going on. Why was everyone so quiet? Why was there a plane crash? Why was my Dad going to New York for awhile? And why in the world was I crying? I remember thinking I had too many questions for a ten-year-old, but I needed to know.
My Mom brought me close to her, hugged me tight, and explained in the simplest terms that my Dad was going to New York because bad men did something horrible, and he had to go help. I was still confused, but now understood why I was crying. Something bad did happen. The next few days were not as clear as September 11, 2001, but this is were my understanding of the days and weeks following 9/11 may be a little different than yours.
My father is a member of the Utah Task Force One Team, Urban Search and Rescue (USR). He and his crew were deployed a short time after the attack on the towers. Once they arrived in New York, they were assigned to the night shift. Sleeping during the day, and working 12 hour shifts through the night. He worked tirelessly on what they called "The Pile." The awful ruble of steel, concrete, dirt, glass, and the remains of what used to be the Twin Towers. Maybe the hardest part of his job was searching for survivors. Or at that point, searching for closure for so many families. It must have been exhausting working on what seemed to be an endless pile of ruble. But I imagine it would have been more intense to deal with the pain and heartbreak of what the cleaning up really meant.
In addition to his USR responsibilities, my Dad was made Chaplain. Which in this case, he was a religious figure to many of the men and women at Ground Zero. He wasn't a priest, bishop, pastor, or a rabbi. He was just a good man. A God fearing man. The tired souls around him needed to know God was near after their shift on the pile. He spoke with men and women from around the country of their sorrows and grief. He did a lot of listening, praying and mourning. So you see, it wasn't a glorious job, to be working at Ground Zero. An honor, as my Dad has said, but not something to boast about.
My little self had limited knowledge of the gravity of the situation and what exactly my Dad was doing on Ground Zero. I knew that my Dad was in New York for his job, and I was scared and worried for his safety. I thought more than once, "What if the bad guys come back? What if they hurt the people cleaning up?" I also thought, "What if a big steal beam falls? What if another building collapses like the tall one on TV?" The most painful question I asked myself over the next couple weeks was, "What if my Dad doesn't come home either?" like so many other little girls' daddies and mommies. I hated watching the news. I hated talking about it. I wanted to fast forward to the day my Dad would step OFF the plane and come home from New York. Then I knew he would be safe.
Throughout those long days, I remember feeling a little selfish that I was so worried about my Dad. When in reality, my Dad was still alive, and he had the opportunity to help heal and clean the country in ways that many people could not. I continued to pray for him, while he was in New York, but at that moment, at only ten years old, I learned what it meant to be united. I felt the deepest heartbreak for families who had lost loved ones. My soul ached to the point of physical pain. A child's worry for her Daddy turned into compassion for her country.
I want to share what my father had to say today about his experience on September 11, 2001. Because really, he has said it best.
"A flood of memories has simultaneously made my soul ache in remembrance and my heart soar with pride as an American. The 10 days and nights I spent on that sacred, hallowed ground with Utah Task Force One -Urban Search and Rescue- on the "pile" changed my life forever. My heart goes out to the families and loved ones of all those lost on that day. Words cannot express the deep pride and honor I feel towards my fellow fighters and others as well who gave the supreme sacrifice in answering the final alarm of their service 12 years ago today. God bless this great nation and those that live in freedom under the stars and stripes that unite us as one as a nation. I, for one, will never forget the sacredness of this day."
I am proud to be an American. God Bless the USA.
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| Dad & Michael. Firefighters and men of honor. Photo Cred: Sister Kara. <3 |
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