September 11th, 10 Years Later: Old Grief, New Grief

September 11th, 2001 was my first day of graduate school at the University of Pennsylvania School of Social Work in Philadelphia.

After a few years of working and interning in children's grief support services, I knew I needed a graduate degree to provide counseling, care and hope for grieving children and families. As I rode the train into the city that most memorable of mornings, I was eager with anticipation. 

I walked into my second class of the day in our small, old building, and on the television was a scene of a tall building smoking. I turned to another student and asked what was happening, basically asking, "is this for real?"

He didn't know much, other than a plane had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers in New York. Not being from the East Coast, I had no idea what I was seeing; my, how my perspective changed that day. We watched, mouths agape, as other students filed in and immediately turned, silent and wide-eyed, toward the TV.

My professor arrived, watched for a few minutes, and then turned it off abruptly, and suggested we start class. The discomfort in the room was palpable; it seemed impossible to focus on learning when a major disaster was occurring in our backyard.

It wasn't 15 minutes before someone popped their head in the door to announce classes had been cancelled and it was recommended that all students and staff vacate the school immediately.

A friend at school, a neighbor from our student housing at Princeton Seminary, met me outside and the two of us walked hurriedly and quietly, unsure of what to say in such a time. Upon arriving at the train station, we learned that all trains in and out of Philly had been cancelled due to the terrorist attacks.

I phoned my husband on my cell phone and asked that he and my friend's husband come to get us right away. I remember that my phone kept saying "all circuits are busy," a phenomenon I'd not yet experienced.

After securing our evacuation plan, I called my parents using a calling card and payphone. My parents lived on the West Coast, and as we were far away in the East, I called to let them know that the attacks had happened close to where we were, but that we were all safe.

My mom was grateful for the call, but didn't seem alarmed. (She told me later, upon watching a news report on TV, she burst into tears when they announced Philadelphia as a possible target. My family simply had no idea how close we were to the site of the attacks).

Once all our necessary emergency calls were made, my friend and I ducked into a nearby bar to watch the news and find out more information. The bar was packed, yet eerily silent and still, except for the live news broadcast and a few people trying half-heartedly to crack jokes and lighten the mood. All of us stood, transfixed, eyes toward the few screens in the place. Tears rolled down cheeks of those around me. Many were dialing numbers repeatedly on their cellphones, hoping to make contact with loved ones. I just couldn't believe what was happening. My safe, secure world became suddenly so strange and surreal. I remember wanting so desperately to be home, on the family farm, in Sandy, Oregon, where terrorists had no targets or interests.

Our husbands arrived in a short 45 minutes, much to our surprise. We expected that the roads would be packed with traffic given the movement en masse from the cities. That afternoon, we hooked up our TV, which we consciously left unplugged in an effort to focus on our studies. For days, weeks even, we were hooked on the news reports. They showed the same scenes over and over: planes crashing, towers falling, people running away from ground zero crying, screaming, and covered in ash.

In the weeks to come, we realized just how great the impact of 9/11 was on our community.

People in my graduate school classes lost loved ones in the attacks. Families in our church lost fathers. The couple I baby-sat for regularly had multiple funerals in a few short weeks because so many of their friends and colleagues had died in the World Trade Center attacks. This sweet couple wanted so badly to protect their young children from the horrible reality of the terrorist attacks.

They didn't turn on their TV except at night while the children slept. They spoke to me in code about funeral arrangements and the extent of their grief. And they tried their hardest to keep their toddler safe from the confusion, sadness, and terror gripping his small Jewish school and community where so many lives had been lost. Yet I remember so distinctly one afternoon as I sat on the floor with this little guy. He would stack large red cardboard blocks to build a "tall tower" and then fly his small grey plane into the side, sending the blocks tumbling to the ground. I sat silently beside him as he repeated this action over and over and over.

In that moment, I knew that life had changed dramatically not only for me, but for everyone whose life would be touched or shattered by this tragic day. And it renewed my commitment to my calling, to the anticipation I felt that first day of school. The grief around me was evidence of our collective need for hope and for healing.

And now, 10 years later, my grief and shock is fresh and new, as my very own Grandfather — veteran, patriarch, good-hearted and gentle man — died this week.

We spent the weekend of the 10 anniversary of 9/11 at another memorial service. Tears flowed, memories shared, survivors gathered. Events within our nation and within my own family coincided in a huge wave of complicated grief.

As training, experience, and life have taught me, death will always be a part of life; grief will forever be a reality. We survivors will always be looking for hope in the midst of searing loss. And for me, the most blessed hope I know of can be summed up in the words of a favorite hymn of mine:

When peace like a river attendeth my ways,

When sorrows like sea billows roll,

Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul!

But, Lord, ’tis for Thee, for Thy coming we wait,

The sky, not the grave, is our goal;

Oh, trump of the angel! Oh, voice of the Lord!

Blessed hope, blessed rest of my soul!

And Lord, haste the day when my faith shall be sight,

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll;

The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend,

Even so, it is well with my soul.

(It is well with my soul, Stafford and Bliss)