Friends,

As you read this, it has been twenty-five years since the 9/11 attacks. How is this possible?

When I went into German class as a freshman in High School, the news was on the big boxy TV mounted in the corner. We asked what had happened, and the teacher said a plane struck one of the twin towers. I chuckled in disbelief, with memories of me trying to fly planes between the twin towers using my grandfather’s “flight simulator” flying through my head. The teacher scolded me. I had clearly not understood the gravity of the situation. I don’t think anyone did.

My sister was much younger than me. After school that day, she was roller skating in our driveway, and she fell and broke her front teeth. Everything was closed, but we were able to get in touch with the dentist at his home, and he came in just for her. He made sure he was wearing his medical mask when he came in to help this little girl. Despite his efforts to hide his emotions, she could still see tears streaming down his face, and it was then that she realized all that talk of the news was bigger and sadder than she had realized.

One of the very few English-speaking families that also attended the Catholic Church had a horrible loss that day. Her brother died in the Twin Towers, and the priest gave a sermon about how the attack was the result of American Imperialism, or something like that. He was oblivious to her loss, and my mom emphatically informed him of his error at the communion rail. We left later that year. They still go.

I have learned not to trust stories preachers tell. Let me rephrase. I have learned not to take stories told from the pulpit as accurate history. Stories from the pulpit should not exist to tell a history, but to illuminate or point the way to the divine. Facts can get in the way of this purpose, so stories are trimmed, edited, and warped to fit this purpose. The three stories from 9/11 are what I remember. I give my confidence in them an A-, A+, and C, respectively.

The tenth anniversary of the attacks was while I was in seminary. The professor who preached that day told the story of Welles Crowther, the man with the red bandana. At the time, I suspected his account was exaggerated, but I was still brought to tears. I was still a licensed EMT at the time and started keeping a bandana in my back pocket. The next year, on the anniversary, the same professor preached but didn’t mention the attacks at all, and I felt the bandana in my back pocket was somehow less meaningful and dropped the habit.

It turns out the story of Welles Crowther and his red bandana was totally factual. The story didn’t need to be edited for it to hit me in the spiritual gut in that sermon I heard fifteen years ago. I just realized this today as I got caught up in the news and controversies around him receiving the Presidential Medal of Freedom. Regardless of which direction you suspect I am virtue signaling from, I am just thankful to know that a hero like that existed.

Nearly three thousand people died that day, Welles being one of them. Comprehending that much death is impossible. Comprehending his heroism is impossible. As someone who laughed that day and is alive today, I only feel humility. I kept that bandana on me because I wanted to believe I would have done the same. I don’t know if I would have, but I think it’s good to want to be heroic, even if we are not when push comes to shove.

Remembering things that are impossible to comprehend should be an exercise in futility, but it is what we do week after week, and it leaves me full, while still wanting more. Whether it’s the heroes of our generation or pondering the impossible hope of our salvation, we somehow remember the things we cannot understand.

Blessings,

Nick