911: I Remember

Like almost every other American, I remember where I was on the morning of the 911 attack. I had just finished working out at the YMCA and was getting ready to leave when I looked up at one of the television screens to see the footage of the planes crashing into the towers.

The volume wasn’t on so I didn’t fully comprehend what I was seeing, but as the day wore on and the story unfolded I remember being awash in a sea of feelings. It had great impact on my wife as well. I didn’t really understand how much until many months later. I don’t remember talking about it much, although I recall feeling unsure about how to discuss it all with my daughter who was only five at the time.

For my wife, the most moving image of the events that transpired was that of the firemen raising the flag at the site of destruction. Only she could describe what it really meant to her but I suspect it was similar to what a lot of us felt, hope, faith, a reminder of what our country is supposed to stand for and its resiliency against oppression.

Karen is an artist, and I mean that in every sense of the word. She creates things in every medium, and sometimes in mediums I wouldn’t expect. Someday our lives will settle from the pace of raising children enough to let her really pursue her creative wellsprings, but in the meantime, her expressions come only at sporadic times.

The 911 story was so emotional, so visceral, that she could not contain it. Months after the 911 events she approached the local fire station and asked if they would be open to having the flag-raising scene depicted in their fire station. She worked with the chief to determine a location and the work began.

They opted for a stairwell landing because it is the one area in the fire station that the crews pass by every day and would be a frequent reminder of all that the image has to teach us. Karen proceeded to spend spare hours over the course of the next few months laying out a grid for the design, sketching in the outlines, and eventually bringing the drawings to life in color. The finished product was more than twice as tall as she is measuring a full  twelve feet tall.

She truly did the hardest work but it required a family effort. Sometimes she was able to sneak over during the day when my daughter was still at school, but if our toddling two-year old son play quietly or she couldn’t find someone to care for  him, she had to paint at night after I got home from work.

I was a newly minted principal still scrambling to learn my role and keep up with the demands of the job, and it wasn’t unusual for me to work 60-80 hours a week. Getting home in time to support the painting effort took some doing but we figured it all out and over the course of a few months, the work was accomplished.

Karen loved being n the fire station like a fly on the wall in her stairwell. There was regular foot traffic where she worked but typically the firemen were settled in to their upstairs quarters. She often told me of the interesting things that happened behind the scenes. Sometimes the fire crew was like a gang of rowdy school boys, other times more somber and sincere. They were always courteous, eager to share their dinner, or at least their recipes, and helpful with her scaffolding or other physical labor. When they were over the top with their antics and they remembered she was there they were quick to apologize and remind each other there was a lady in the house. I think she actually liked the attention. (Wouldn’t you?)

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

When the work was accomplished they held a ceremony to thank her for her work. They sent a fire truck to our house to pick her up. The kids were allowed to sit in it and Karen actually got to ride to the fire station where the fire chief and other city officials paid tribute. There was even some local and national press about it.

I think Karen was appreciative, but actually a little embarrassed by all the attention. That was never why she set out on the project. For her it had to do with what that picture stirred inside her. Something about its heroism, valor and patriotism had to be both expressed and preserved.

For me, remembering 911 means honoring those who died, those who lived, and those who continue to defend. Remembering 911 brings back those days of my wife acting on her artistic instincts and what that meant for our family. For me that painting isn’t just a reminder of what happened and the heroism that followed. It reminds me that we live in a free land where an artist can paint whatever she wants, where a family is free to become whatever they want, and where we can find God wherever He is.

What does remembering 911 mean for you?

Advertisement