Never Forget: Remembering 9/11 Twenty-Five Years Later

It was a crisp, bright Tuesday morning filled with the promise of a beautiful fall. I was in my kitchen in Bergenfield, New Jersey, a suburb of New York City. The kids had gotten off to school and the popular ‘Rambling with Gambling’, radio show was on in the background just before 9. The two anchors that morning, John Gambling and George Meade, had their show interrupted with news of a plane that had crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center. This was shocking on so many levels. What was an airliner, or any aircraft for that matter, doing flying within the airspace of New York, filled with tall buildings and skyscrapers?

My husband was an administrator at a large public school in Brooklyn, where I had worked as well. I called him immediately, as many of his students’ parents worked in the city. He grabbed his camera and ran up to the roof of the school where there was a clear view of the New York skyline. By that time, both towers were burning. He ran to tell the other administrators what was going on and by the time he got back up to the roof, both towers were down. We all remember where we were that day when we heard the news.  

School in New York City started after Labor Day, and the school had not yet collected all the release forms from parents. Shortly after the news broke, parents lined around the building, frantically trying to pick up their students, and of course many students parents worked in the heart of the city. Was the entire area under attack? No one knew.

Working in Brooklyn, my husband crossed two bridges to get to work. New York City is NEVER closed down and now we were separated on both sides of the Hudson and East River.

Back in New Jersey, I was at the Board of Ed office where we were all glued to the news. The airspace had been closed and it was eerily quiet. We heard a large plane fly over from the Maguire Air Force Base.

We later found out that four planes had crashed in total. In addition to both towers of the World Trade Center, a plane crashed in Shanksville, Pennsylvania and also at the Pentagon. Most of us in the area knew someone who died that day. The sense of sorrow hanging over the area was palatable, embedded in our collective consciousness.

Early on people in the Towers were told to remain as no one was sure exactly what was going on. A close friend of my mother-in-law, then up in years, grabbed her belongings and took off from the South Tower, running down flights and flights of stairs. She left the city walking all the way over the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn.

A former boyfriend of mine’s brother was killed in the towers, a young man newly married with a baby. As the clean-up of Ground Zero wore on, rescuers kept finding parts of bodies, and continued notifying family members. Finally, the mother of the young man who died had had enough, and asked for no further notifications. They did however eventually find his wedding ring, which was a tremendous comfort to his widow.

We, like most people in the area, were bound and determined that no one would keep us out of the city. My family was attending a church in New York City, housed in Hunter College. We loved the preaching of Tim Keller, pastor at the time. We headed to the East Side location for the early service at 8:30 AM.  Hunter College is a huge space and there were NO seats. We couldn’t even get in. Many churches were over-flowing that day, as people were crushed by the massive loss and searching for hope and stability.

As I write this, so many memories flood back. 

My husband remembered seeing the towers being built as a teenager. We celebrated our first anniversary at the Windows on the World, a restaurant occupying the 106 and 107 floors of the North Tower with a spectacular view of Manhattan.

Driving into New York City in the early morning seeing the fully armed National Guard figures emerge out of the mist from each toll booth, guarding the George Washington Bridge.

Of the brave responders who ran into the towers while everyone else was running out.

The armada of roughly 150 boats that evacuated 500,000 people out of lower Manhattan.

The search, rescue and recovery operation at Ground Zero or first responders, construction professionals and volunteers. No survivors were found after 9/12 and it became a tireless search for human remains and personal effects.

The Ground Zero Cross, a 20-foot-tall intersecting formation of steel T-beams that stood in the middle of the debris, that became a symbol of hope amidst the devastation. It was the gathering point for rescue workers, firefighters and police officers, who met at the base of the cross daily to pray, grieve and to seek comfort from one another. Franciscan priest Father Brian Jordan spent the next 10 months holding Mass at its base for first responders.

The tremendous love we felt from the nation, where volunteers rallied, bringing grills and cooking meals for weary workers at Ground Zero.

Historic St. Paul’s Church, only 100 yards from the World Trade Center, that somehow remained untouched. 

Hundreds of flyers posted in the area looking for any bit of information regarding loved ones.

The temple in NJ, where I was singing on Yom Kipper and the poignant strains of Bruch’s Kol Nidre ushering in the High Holy Day. The woman I sang next to who discovered that her friend was on Flight 93 that went down in Pennsylvania.

The heroic measures taken by individuals like Todd Beamer, who along with others, fought to the death against terrorists on Flight 93, preventing the flight from acting as a missile destined for Washington, DC.

The final heartbreaking call from aircrafts, where loved ones said goodbye. Those who tried to say goodbye and couldn’t reach those they loved. 

The survivors guilt felt by those who changed travel plans at the last minute.

The two beams of light shining into the sky where the towers had been.

The sense of patriotism that emerged and seemed to continue.

The song, “I’m Proud to be an American,” by Lee Greenway that played continuously.

The Memorial Service broadcast one year later. A clear bright day, like that day. The names of the departed starting to be read as a sudden gusty wind blew up, continuing only until the end of the service.

The tour of New York City my husband and I took a group of students on from a local college years later, visiting the 9/11 Museum and the new tower. The quiet hush of the city near the twin reflecting pools. The heartbreaking personal accounts of that day. The recordings of panicked calls for help. The charred firetruck from the station closest to the World Trade Center, FDNY 10/Ladder 10, the first station to respond, where 6 firefighters died. The biographies of the deceased, making them real. The office worker in the flaming tower, who straightened her clothes, buttoned her jacket and jumped. The heartache retold of families that lost husbands, fathers, children. Those who suffered thereafter with unspeakable burns, respiratory issues and cancer. The best and worse of humanity. The grief I feel twenty-five years later writing this.

We all know where we were that day, and we will never forget.

“Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

— John 15:13