Reflection
The story of Flight 93 is the story that will live on in the lore of our history, that stuff of Paul Revere and Bunker Hill, of Iwo Jima and Omaha Beach. Fighting against odds, victory and defeat that becomes blurred as the definition of hero stands out. I hate that 9/11 has become a political buzzword, useful in election years and platforms, but rarely used for true reflection. I remember, on the first anniversary of 9/11, on my way to work, I cried uncontrollably. I couldn’t explain it. I had no connection to the event, yet for some reason, I was racked with emotion.
I had just ventured out in starting a church, and in the midst of the instability and insecurity, I found myself understanding where my true value lies. As I reflected on those that died, some in valor and some without any warning, I knew that hope would spur me on. Hope for making the world a better place, for embracing my idealism against the winds of cynicism, for saying that I cherish my family and not being cliche.
Watching some of the coverage tonight about the families who lost loved ones, I was able to spend some more time reflecting. Kylie came out of nowhere and gave me a kiss. It felt good to turn off the TV and give her a hug.