This one's not supposed to be funny

One of the things I remember about my freshman year of college was that when something really big was on tv you could walk down the hallway and hear it in stereo. One week there was a Star Trek marathon, and that sticks out to me as one of those times -– it was Rose-Hulman, after all -- on my way to my room, out of every doorway I could hear the unmistakable sound of the doors opening on the deck of the starship Enterprise. Every once in a while you could hear the voice of Apu from the Simpsons (it was popular enough that if you had the misfortune to head to the dining hall at 6:30 you would get caught in the Simpsons rush). Two other times like this are rather memorable: the NCAA tournament, when everyone could keep track of their inevitably busted brackets simply by walking down Speed Hall and the events that transpired five years ago today.

I remember it was a Tuesday, my longest day. I’ll never forget that it was a Tuesday because it was the first day I was to put on the uniform of an Air Force ROTC cadet. That day it was only a t-shirt that read Air Force and khaki pants, because I hadn’t had my trousers altered to my size just yet; but nonetheless, I was wearing the uniform of my country on that day. I didn’t know there would be anything else remarkable about that day when I got up that morning and went to breakfast and physics. It started out like every other day did; a bowl of cereal and a battle to stay awake in the most impersonal 24 person 8 am class I’ve ever had. Most folks then, as they do now, try to avoid 8 am classes, but that first semester I was not one of the lucky ones. Afterwards, though, it became clear that my wearing a gym shirt proclaiming my membership in the Air Force ROTC was the least remarkable thing about this day.

I walked into the residence hall (they frown on the word dorm) and saw that the crappy big screen in the common area was tuned to CNN, and the most bizarre image I have ever seen. Black smoke was billowing out of one of the most recognizable buildings in the world – The Pentagon – which took me some time to digest, especially when they flashed over to two other instantly recognizable buildings – both World Trade Center towers. I didn’t quite put it together at first. I saw this image on the screen, but it wasn’t real to me yet. So I ran upstairs to turn on my tv where images like this never appear. I didn’t need to, though; I could hear the sounds of the news coming down the hallway. I watched it. I watched it all. The towers hadn’t fallen yet. When they told us what had happened, there was no mistake. This wasn’t an accident. I kept watching. I cried. I cried a lot that day.

I don’t remember exactly when my parents called, but my mom did, asking, in a panic, if I was all right. I was 800 miles from danger, but it didn’t matter to her. I can understand, though; the people in those office buildings had no reason to expect that Hell would open up in Manhattan and try to grab them. I’d like to think that Hell only managed to claim 10 people in New York that day, with another 5 coming from Washington and 4 more in an obscure field in Pennsylvania, while 2,973 others managed to escape that fiery grasp for a happier destination.

There was other happy news, though, too. Not all of it came immediately, like the story that would raise goosebumps on the dead, hearing the members of Congress gather on the steps of that building to sing “God Bless America.” Some took a few days, like the equally goosebump inspiring British changing of the guard ceremony that took place the following day under the sound of The Star Spangled Banner. We had a president who never looked quite as presidential as he did on that day. We had a mayor who told a Saudi prince that we didn’t need his money if he insisted we take any part of the blame. We all felt like Rudy was our mayor, even if we had never set foot in the City of New York. We all felt like we belonged to the city now, and it to all of us.

We watched it, all day, every moment, on its most vulnerable day. We cried with it, we grieved with it, we prayed with it, we got angry with it. The breathtaking height of these towers, a visibly proclaiming their confidence and worldly importance while gracefully avoiding ostentation, seemed to be twisted unimaginably as they were wounded. That very same height now seemed more to be more of a reach for God, asking for mercy. Although it didn’t seem like it at first considering the magnitude of nearly 3,000 dead, He did indeed grant it; around 16,000 people who stood below the ghastly sight managed to leave safely. Tonight, when you go before God like those towers did, it will be easy to remember the 18,973 people and their families who were there that morning, but don’t forget those who still wish us harm in your prayers, either. We are a big enough nation and people to do that. God Bless America.

"But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." - Matthew 5:44