I took my 4th grade class to music, and slowly walked back upstairs to my classroom. A colleague touched my arm, and asked, “Did you hear what happened?” I could tell by her tone and eyes that it was something big.

“A plane just hit one of the twin towers.” As I processed this information, understanding hit. It had to be an act of terrorism---NYC would never let a plane fly that close to the city. And then the 2nd "AHA", more chilling than the first---This meant war. Maybe even World War III.

Sometimes I react backwards to things, the exact opposite than the way most people do. Little things can trip me up, and put me in a spin for days. But the big things? The hard things? The how-do-you-even-wrap-your-head-around-it things? Those are easier. Those I have faith for. As I stood, rapidly making sense of what I was hearing, my body’s defense system kicked in, and adrenaline took over. The danger and senselessness woke me up, and energized me in a way I’ve never experienced before or since.

This is the kind of event that you really can’t have drills for in school. There’s no developing a safety plan for THIS.

Yet PS 87, or “One Family Under the Sun” as we called ourselves, operated flawlessly. A determination was made at the first plane’s hit, that no adult in the school body would tell a child what had happened. We were a strong school, with as many different opinions as there were individuals. Everyone had a voice from the youngest child to the out of district parents and no one ever held back. But on this day, the decision was made quickly and not one adult broke rank.

We felt it was in the best interest of each child to be told of the tragedy by the people they trusted most, their family. Every out-of-classroom adult in the building was mobilized as an army of chaperones, retrieving one child at a time from classrooms, as their parents arrived at the office, to take them home and hug them tight.

At first, it was one child leaving early in my classroom, and then a few leaving at a time, until finally the dam burst and kids began leaving continually. The children knew something was up long before we were ready for them to. They had seen adults whispering to one another in the hallways. They read our worried faces, and realized that their peers were not going to doctor or dentist appointments. We did our best to appease their worry and pretend that nothing bad was happening, but they knew better.

As teachers with our doors closed, and a city crumbling outside, we had little outside news of what was happening. When we could, we talked about what to do that evening. We made plans to keep the school open for whomever was left, not knowing if we would be watching over orphans that night, not knowing if we would be personally effected by loved ones who we would never hear from again.

Those of us who lived in the outer boroughs found buddies who could put us up if we weren’t able to get home for a few days. By lunchtime? All but 4 of my kids had been picked up.

In the days following September 11th, it was like living in a dream. Ground Zero pulled at me constantly-how could I not go help? Yet, my place was with my students. Was it enough? The city turned into a big prayer meeting with churches staying open 24 hours a day for those needing solace, and answers, and a place to find God. Gifts of compassion poured in, from strangers, from schoolchildren. Our auditorium had posters from different parts of the country which somehow had found their way to us. Love was everywhere.

But so was death. I’d walk thru Grand Central Subway station daily on my way to a connecting train. There were hundreds of pictures posted of people still missing. They haunted me, and I couldn’t pass by without stopping and looking and weeping. Grief hung over the entire city and clung to me, making the normal everyday routines of life exhausting. Copycat terrorist acts followed like aftershocks, and the media was faithful to inform of us of every single one. At times, work was the only respite from the sheer volume of video footage and hours of rehashing and commentary.

I never felt the need to visit Ground Zero in later days, because I had lived it. The whole city was Ground Zero.

In times of great evil, God draws near. Heroes rise, and ordinary people do great things. The overwhelming love of God for “THE CITY” was never more apparent to me than in the immediate aftermath of September 11th. Men, women, and children became His hands and feet and He reached around and gathered the city under His wing and hugged us close for a long, long time.

This Wednesday is the 12th Anniversary of the September 11th attacks. The world will pause and remember what happened that fateful morning. As I join in mourning the precious lives evil took, and as I join in honoring the men and women who rose up and risked their lives, and served, and put love in action for strangers----I will also remember the courage of my children, the open hearts of New Yorkers who experienced unthinkable horror together and united, and the embrace of a GREAT, COMPASSIONATE GOD who is never far from the brokenhearted.

I will always remember.

Picture credits: September 11th Cross on Pixaby: Michal Lech

Fireman: Jim Watson of the US Navy. Obtained from Wikipedia Commons, Public Domain photo.

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