On September 10, 2002 it was impossible for me to sleep, and with the vision of the Twin Towers collapsing weighing heavy on my mind and the slow motion reminder on every cable channel; I gathered my memories and my laptop and began creating sentences.
Never, ever could I have imagined some 9 years later that an inhuman attack of the innocent that joined the vast majority of this planet in prayer would be engulfed in controversy over a book sacred words?
It seemed so uncomplicated in 2002 when I wrote:
“The whistle and static coming from the wall mounted P.A. speaker signaled to me and my classmates that Sr. Teresine was going to talk to my second grade class
and maybe even the entire school.
She might announce that we would be having a special Mass, or tell us the little boxes of white milk had not been delivered for lunch tomorrow so we needed to tell our Mothers.
Or maybe Sister was going to ask us to quietly kneel on the floor beside our desks and bow our heads to pray for a special intention.
She began with the words,
"It is a very sad time for us all and it is only our prayers that will comfort those in need. Do not ever feel that you are helpless because the prayers of children are always heard,
even if not quickly answered."
It was Friday November 22, 1963 and our President had been shot.
Recess was quiet, our teacher's black transistor radio, with electric tape holding the battery cover on, was the only sound on the playground.
We were told to pray throughout dismissal for the families, and the doctors,
for our first Catholic President.
And we did.
When I got home, Mom's face was etched with tears.
Our small black and white television explained why.
JFK was dead.
His wife's pretty suit stained with his blood. His children now had no Daddy.
The feel of that hard, cold terrazzo floor returns each year.
Seaborn Day School had tile floors, not terrazzo, but the ache on your knees was much the same.
As principal of a small private Day School my phone rang incessantly every morning..this September morning was no different.
Lunch boxes forgotten. "Has she stopped crying," woes.
Teachers running late. Children out with the sniffles.
It wasn't unusual for Husband to call me at work first thing either.
Maybe to remind me that he has an evening meeting. To read a silly email.
Not to forget he needs shaving cream for tomorrow.
Never, ever could I have imagined some 9 years later that an inhuman attack of the innocent that joined the vast majority of this planet in prayer would be engulfed in controversy over a book sacred words?
It seemed so uncomplicated in 2002 when I wrote:
“The whistle and static coming from the wall mounted P.A. speaker signaled to me and my classmates that Sr. Teresine was going to talk to my second grade class
and maybe even the entire school.
She might announce that we would be having a special Mass, or tell us the little boxes of white milk had not been delivered for lunch tomorrow so we needed to tell our Mothers.
Or maybe Sister was going to ask us to quietly kneel on the floor beside our desks and bow our heads to pray for a special intention.
She began with the words,
"It is a very sad time for us all and it is only our prayers that will comfort those in need. Do not ever feel that you are helpless because the prayers of children are always heard,
even if not quickly answered."
It was Friday November 22, 1963 and our President had been shot.
Recess was quiet, our teacher's black transistor radio, with electric tape holding the battery cover on, was the only sound on the playground.
We were told to pray throughout dismissal for the families, and the doctors,
for our first Catholic President.
And we did.
When I got home, Mom's face was etched with tears.
Our small black and white television explained why.
JFK was dead.
His wife's pretty suit stained with his blood. His children now had no Daddy.
The feel of that hard, cold terrazzo floor returns each year.
Seaborn Day School had tile floors, not terrazzo, but the ache on your knees was much the same.
As principal of a small private Day School my phone rang incessantly every morning..this September morning was no different.
Lunch boxes forgotten. "Has she stopped crying," woes.
Teachers running late. Children out with the sniffles.
It wasn't unusual for Husband to call me at work first thing either.
Maybe to remind me that he has an evening meeting. To read a silly email.
Not to forget he needs shaving cream for tomorrow.
Just to say "I love you lots!"
9/11/2001 was different.
"Donna, I think we are being attacked," he whispered.
"Attacked?" I asked, into the portable phone I was holding with my shoulder and chin, while herding little ones out of the halls.
"What are you talking about?
Within hours weeping parents were rushing up to the school house door, punching the entry code with trembling hands. Holding children close to their quaking hearts, as if a wild animal was on the loose and after them. I had hustled everyone off the playground and away from the windows. Why? I couldn't say. It just seemed safer.
I went from class to class hugging teacher's necks and making certain that the children were singing their silly, circle time songs.
"London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down......"
My cell phone ringtone alerted me that Mom and Dad and our sons were calling...and calling...and calling.
"Donna, I think we are being attacked," he whispered.
"Attacked?" I asked, into the portable phone I was holding with my shoulder and chin, while herding little ones out of the halls.
"What are you talking about?
Within hours weeping parents were rushing up to the school house door, punching the entry code with trembling hands. Holding children close to their quaking hearts, as if a wild animal was on the loose and after them. I had hustled everyone off the playground and away from the windows. Why? I couldn't say. It just seemed safer.
I went from class to class hugging teacher's necks and making certain that the children were singing their silly, circle time songs.
"London Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down......"
My cell phone ringtone alerted me that Mom and Dad and our sons were calling...and calling...and calling.
Sister Teresine's words surfaced and became my own.
Rino, captain of his college basketball team called, wondering how to lead a practice on such a terrible day. How to answer the young players, far from home, questions or fears.
"Mom, what do I say?"
Rino, captain of his college basketball team called, wondering how to lead a practice on such a terrible day. How to answer the young players, far from home, questions or fears.
"Mom, what do I say?"
That was the first time I told him about a little girl in a green pleated skirt, kneeling on a chilly floor one November afternoon. I shared an old Nun's wisdom about the prayers of children.
Charles called from his master's program lab.
"Where's Dad? You Ok. Rino? Grandma and Grandaddy?" he asked.
"I need extra money to buy a book," he continued, "The Quran. Because I need to read for myself what I think it teaches, before I am told what it teaches."
Their futures seemed in peril.
Not future...years.
Future...tonight.
I explained how in 1963 my mother shared her grief and her faith and I repeated Sister's remedy for helplessness. I assured them all that they would always remember where they were that September day. That for years, new and old friends alike would also remember the sounds and feels and smells that they experienced on that morning.
It will become a demarcation line.
A before and after.”
Today on this 9th anniversary I was with 100,000 people gathered together for a football game, just a few miles from where a bonfire fueled not by pages of the Book of Islam, but by hell’s favorite accelerant……the words of hate, was to be held.
And as the stadium fell still in a moment of silence to honor those that gave and continue to give, I looked through clouds to the heavens…and reminded Sister Teresine of her promise and wondered how many more children would have to bow their heads in mournful prayer, before adults learn to live in peace.
Charles called from his master's program lab.
"Where's Dad? You Ok. Rino? Grandma and Grandaddy?" he asked.
"I need extra money to buy a book," he continued, "The Quran. Because I need to read for myself what I think it teaches, before I am told what it teaches."
Their futures seemed in peril.
Not future...years.
Future...tonight.
I explained how in 1963 my mother shared her grief and her faith and I repeated Sister's remedy for helplessness. I assured them all that they would always remember where they were that September day. That for years, new and old friends alike would also remember the sounds and feels and smells that they experienced on that morning.
It will become a demarcation line.
A before and after.”
Today on this 9th anniversary I was with 100,000 people gathered together for a football game, just a few miles from where a bonfire fueled not by pages of the Book of Islam, but by hell’s favorite accelerant……the words of hate, was to be held.
And as the stadium fell still in a moment of silence to honor those that gave and continue to give, I looked through clouds to the heavens…and reminded Sister Teresine of her promise and wondered how many more children would have to bow their heads in mournful prayer, before adults learn to live in peace.
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