At 7:00 a.m. on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, I was singing and chatting with my two adorable babies. Rolie Polie Olie, our favorite kids' show was on TV and my twin boys sat in their highchairs eating their breakfast. They turned one year old just ten days earlier. I remember the sunshine, the cheeriness of the morning, the happy babble of my boys--because moments later, everything changed.
My sister called. I remember I was standing in the middle of the kitchen, happy and surprised to hear from Heather.
"Sam," she said, her voice urgent and strained, "where's David?"
"He's upstairs," I said. "Getting ready for work. Why?"
"He didn't go to New York? Wasn't he supposed to be flying out East this week?"
"Yeah. He was supposed to fly out this morning, but his plans changed last night."
And then she said, "Turn on the TV."
I remember seeing the the confused reporting and the fire in the sky.
I remember running upstairs to tell David.
But I don't remember much else.
I remember sitting on the edge of the couch. Staring, fixated, on the scene unfolding.
I remember alternately hugging myself and squeezing David's hand.
But I don't remember my boys.
I'm sure they must have been playing on the floor. They were such happy little boys, and really no trouble at all—leaving me and David staring in horror at the television, as another plane hit. And another plane fell.
I remember a dream I had two nights later.
I saw the ruins of the Twin Towers, and angels standing amid the destruction. I knew they marked where survivors—and then the bodies—could be found. Every one of those souls were marked, and remembered.
It might have been fancy, or it might have been real. Either way, it gave me comfort to know that God remembered, too.
He remembers even now. He never forgets.
And neither should we.