Sunday, September 11, 2011
I wanted to write something about this anniversary, but I feel so very very small and inadequate to the task. All I can write is this constant thought I have had since that day:
The man showered, dressed sharply, combed his hair, his shoes were polished. The reservations for dinner had been made, everything in order. A beautiful day, and it felt good to be alive. He greeted his fellow employees going up to the same floor. They shared small talk, some office gossip, what they saw on television the night before.
In a half hours’ time, he would leave a message for his wife, saying how he loved her so much and to kiss the children for him. He held out hope that maybe someone would rescue them and called 911. The operator calmly assured him that help was on the way, and to stay put, but he was already making peace with God, and asking himself whether it would be better to jump into eternity or fall with dignity, hoping that God would catch him on his way down and spare him the pain of hitting the ground below. All around him, other employees were going through their own Gethsemanes as well. All alone, together.
That is the vision that constantly eats away at my mind to this day.