It has become a ritual to remember 9/11/2001. We share where we were when we heard the news (Mr. Thompson’s physics class). We share various memories that took place throughout the day (my friend Josh keeping a handwritten note of all the activities of the day with timestamps and sharing it with us at lunch). And we read stories of people who died, and people who survived. Perhaps you did some of those things yesterday. I’ve participated in these rituals, but perhaps a bit less over the past ten years.
Ten years ago, my grandma Marian died on 9/11/2014 and usurped the day’s meaning for me. Not wholly, I suppose, but remembering 9/11 has become more layered these days.
The ritual of remembering my grandma’s death seems more important most years. I remember where I was. I was sitting in Rev. Rossow’s Literature and the Gospel class in Sieck Hall. It was the classroom at the end of the hall, across from the bathroom. My phone started buzzing in my pocket and I knew what had happened.
Yesterday morning, as I looked at interior design elements for my second book, I glanced the dedication. It is dedicated to my grandparents, who each taught me the undeniable power of telling the truth.
And I thought about the truths my grandma taught me. Some intentionally. Some not. She had this sensitivity that I inherited. A sensitivity to others who were suffering. I remember whenever there was a thunderstorm our dog, Gizmo, would hide in terror in the barn somewhere. My grandma frequently remarked how bad she felt for Gizmo, all terrified and alone. That softness of heart and deep care is a truth she taught me well.
But I also think of the truths she taught me when her Alzheimer’s had stolen her speech. She taught me the truth that patience, a smile, and a whole bunch of pictures could keep a conversation going for a long time without all those unnecessary and difficult to retrieve words.
I’ve heard of people who hate Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving or whatever holiday because a loved one died on or near that holiday. Somehow remembering the anniversary of a death on 9/11 seems terribly appropriate.
And then, yesterday, the layers of grief rippled out further. A friend of ours died. He was an elderly gentleman from a congregation nearby. We didn’t know him that well, I suppose. But, strangely, we spent several holidays together. Mutual friends (found family really) meant that we celebrated Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving together.
And I have memories layered into the day once again. Chuck riding on a go-kart down the streets of Oakley. Chuck telling me about his cat’s favorite treats. Chuck and the story of building his airplane. And though the friendship was short, Chuck taught me a truth or two about what it means to be filled with joy.
How much grief can one day contain?
How many stories and memories of courage and love?
How many lessons in deep truth?
It seems at least one more.
When we experience grief upon grief, we recall the one who came to give us grace upon grace.
Thanks for reading. Thanks for sharing.
Stay Curious (and caring). Ask Questions.
Andy