For Americans of my parents' generation, the attack on Pearl Harbor had always stood out as the harshest of reminders that there are those in the world that wish us harm. I remember my father and mother being somber each and every anniversary of the attack, taking time to discuss the events of that day with their children. They talked about where they were when they heard the news, how others around them reacted, what followed in the coming days. They were teenagers growing up in a rural area, media access was sparse and limited at best, yet they could clearly recall the impact it had. On each anniversary, the stories told were the same year after year and my dad would conclude his sharing of memories by saying, "That was the day when everybody grew up." My father was one of the young boys that marched off to war, having never been off the farm, never ridden a train, never having seen a community with a population of more than a few thousand. The first-born in his family, his parents were proud of their son in his dress uniform. It was the nicest suit of clothes he'd owned up until that point, and his mother, acknowledging that many would not return home, had several photos taken of him in uniform so she would have a remembrance of him if he did not make it back alive. Those stories were told over and over to me and my sister and brother because my parents felt so strongly that we never, ever forget what sacrifice had been made so that our generation could live in peace and freedom.
Today, Americans and the world will remember the events of September 11, 2001. Another life-changing event in American history has impacted a generation, and that generation will continue to tell it's story. An act of war against America strikes at the heart and soul of most of us. There are places in the world where conflict exists on a regular basis and it's even expected, but in America, we don't take agression against our freedom and our way of life without a fight, and may it always be so.
A few days after 9/11 I heard a commentator say that the city of New York is so vast and broad in terms of its population, that basically every American family is somehow connected to somebody that lives there. It did seem to be true; everyone I talked to seem to know someone that lived there and would share a personal story of what had been seen and heard. Our family was no exception. One of my sons had just moved to Manhattan that Labor Day weekend to pursue an advanced degree at Columbia University. Like his grandfather many years before him, he didn't have much experience outside of the small town in fly-over country where he grew up. It was hours and hours before we could make any contact with him, fearing the worst the entire time. Finally, by evening, he was able to get through and we agreed to talk every hour through the night. There was such an urgent need to stay connected. Shaken from our comfortable reality, it was our turn to take notice that evil exists and seeks to destroy the American way of life. At that point, no one knew if more attacks were coming or what morning would bring. I remember during one of the late night phone calls he said, "Mom, there's ashes and all kinds of debris flying through the air and they are saying on the news that some of it are the remains of people that died today. The thought of that just makes me so sad. It's so scary here." For my son, that was the day that he grew up.
Fly your flag today. Take a few moments to pause and remember. Our generation has an obligation to keep this day sacred and to pass along to those coming behind us just what happened, where we were, what we thought and what people were saying.

