I was in a store, and they had pulled out a television. Everyone in the store was huddled around the small t.v. We really didn't know much in those first few minutes. We all thought a plane had simply crashed.
Until the second plane hit the towers.
More information started coming out. It was not a crash; but terrorism. How many more planes did they have? We didn't know. One thing was certain - two of the planes HAD flown out of Boston's Logan Airport. As had my husband that morning.
I immediately tried calling him. No answer. I tried calling his office to see if anyone had heard from him. His secretary said that, no, Josh hadn't called in yet. She told me that the car service the firm uses had taken someone to the airport that was on one of the planes.
"Debbie," I said, my heart pounding, "JOSH TOOK THE CAR SERVICE THIS MORNING."
I remember sitting in the car, in the mall parking lot, looking at the pristine, blue sky. I have never felt so small. The tears starting flowing. I started praying. Praying that my husband was not on one of those planes. Praying for the husbands that were. Praying for all of us.
It was a good six hours before I heard from Josh. He did fly on American Airlines that morning, on a flight about 20 minutes ahead of the hijacked planes. Same flight path. Same terminal even. He probably walked right past the terrorists and all the people on those flights. I've often wondered since then how many times we cross paths with sheer terror and never even know it.
The whole world changed on that crisp September morning. Nothing has been the same since. I will forever be grateful that my husband got on the plane that he did, instead of the ones that left a few minutes later. And my heart will always go out to those whose husbands were not so lucky.
God bless America.
I was inspired by Gabi's post today. Where were you?