Ladies and Gentleman, there has been a tragedy in New York city. A commercial jet has apparently veered off course and crashed into one of the Twin Towers.
I was in my maroon Toyota 4Runner, driving into work in downtown Denver, when the words split across the radio airwaves. A horrific disaster. I could not imagine the fear and agony of one who, at that moment, was living through this nightmare. And then even more terrifying words followed.
Oh my God, this was not an accident. Another jet has just crashed.
The nation sat stunned. How could this happen? Why would this happen? Who would do such a thing? I walked into the fifth floor of the Schwab building, the television monitors filled with scenes of smoke and tears and fire and grey dust and bodies flung out of high windows. I called Miska – had to talk to my wife, to hear her voice and know that the entire world wasn’t going down in flames.
I remember these words, these feelings, these horrors. I remember feeling angry, sad, beligerant. I wanted somebody to do something, anybody to do something.
And many more grief-stricken words have come since then. Words from a father in South Dakota, a mother in Afghanistan, a relief worker in Iraq, a dauther in Texas.
My son is gone. My husband is gone. My neighborhood is gone. My mother is gone.
Sad words that remind us of how much we need redemption, how lost we are as a people. I must add my words to theirs.
God, help us. We are killing ourselves. In the name of love, stop our violence. Give us hope. Please.