Early on a bright Tuesday morning in September, I was in the middle of a cross-country flight, literally running from one terminal to another in Dallas, when, much to my dismay, my cell phone rang.
It was my wife. It was September 11, 2001. I had been on an American Airlines flight heading for L.A., after all — and at that time, not much else was known about the first plane that struck the World Trade Center. I thought she had to be misunderstanding what she had seen on TV. Would that she had…
It’s been 17 years since then – and yet every year on September 11, I can’t help but recall the events of that day. How on that day in particular, when family and friends were so particularly dear and precious, I spent stranded in a hotel room in Dallas. It was perhaps the longest day — and loneliest night — of my life.
In fact, I was to spend the next several days in Dallas — there were no planes flying, no rental cars to be had — I was literally separated from home and family by hundreds of insurmountable miles for three interminably long days. As that long week drew to a close, I finally was able to acquire a rental car and begin a long two-day journey home. During that long, lonely drive, I had lots of time to think, to pray, and yes, to cry. Most of that drive is a blur to me now, just mile after endless mile of open road.
There was, however, one incident I will never forget. Somewhere in the middle of Arkansas, a large group of bikers was coming up around me. A particularly scruffy looking guy with a long beard led the pack on a big bike — rough looking – the kind you generally aren’t happy to see coming up behind you on a lonely deserted highway. But unfurled behind him on his Harley was an enormous American flag. And at that moment, for the first time in 72 hours, I felt a sense of peace — the comfort you feel inside when you know you are going…home.
Seventeen years later, I can still feel that ache of being separated from those I love — and yet, even amidst the acrimony of our current political climate, I’m still able to recall the warmth I felt when I saw that biker gang pass by me flying our nation’s flag.
On not a few mornings since that awful day, I’ve thought about how many went to work, how many boarded a plane – as many will today - not realizing that they would not get to come home again. How many sacrificed their lives so that others could go home. How many put their lives on the line every day still, here and abroad, to help keep us and our loved ones safe.
We take a lot for granted in this life, perhaps nothing more cavalierly than that there will be a tomorrow to set the record straight, to right inflicted wrongs, to tell our loved ones just how precious they are. On this day – as we remember that most awful of days - let’s all take a moment to treasure what we have — and those we have to share it with still.