The Los Angeles airport Hilton, shortly after 6 a.m. A work colleague and I were talking quietly in our respective beds, figuring out who was going to shower first and reflecting on a great meal the night before. We’d be driving to San Diego for an 11 a.m. meeting with an advertiser.
The phone rang. We looked at each other. Too early for the wakeup call. She answered, talked for a couple of seconds, and handed the phone to me. “It’s your husband,” she said. “Something’s wrong.”
My guess was that my father or his mother had died. Instead, he told me to turn on the television. Both of the tallest World Trade Center towers had been hit by airplanes. As he talked about the rumors and speculation, my colleague and I could only stare, slack-jawed, at the television. I hung up the phone. We hugged, then started getting ready. I think we figured we’d both just fly home from LAX. But shortly, we found out all planes were grounded. We called the advertiser; its office still was going to be open so the meeting was on. Then we heard about the Pentagon. Then Shanksville. We agreed San Diego was likely a safer place to be than Los Angeles, so as quickly as we could, we finished dressing and got in the car.
The meeting went as well as could be expected. By then, we knew flights were grounded indefinitely. I wasn’t going to be flying home to Cincinnati from San Diego. My colleague wasn’t going to be flying to another appointment in the Bay Area. So, we drove back to Los Angeles, back to the Hilton in hopes that a miracle would happen and we’d be able to fly out the following morning.
Wednesday morning came. Still no idea of when flights would be going out again. We decided to drive north to the Bay Area, and delayed the client meeting by several hours. We drove. We cried. We listened to the radio. We prayed.
The next several days are a mishmash of memories. Husbands who tried to micromanage our lives from afar. Washing out our underwear again and again, because who knew we’d be gone this long. We learned more about each other’s life stories and dreams and fears than some of our closest friends did. Finally, before dawn on Saturday, September 15, we left–she for the Oakland airport, I for San Jose.
In the short term, the thing September 11 changed in my life was that I became a severe overpacker. I’m no longer the woman who could do a week in Europe with a carryon bag. It also took a toll on my marriage; my husband wasn’t working, and had no one else to talk with about what had happened. Soon, our conversations were about nothing other than September 11.
Long term, at some level, I saw the comfort my colleague took in her strong faith in God during a senseless time. I wished I had some of that. I wasn’t brave enough to think about how I could get some. That would come later. I didn’t wonder how God could let something like 9/11 happen. Instead, I marveled at calm His presence in my friend’s life provided.
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