I vividly remember that awful morning. Sharon and I had just returned from a jog, and were sitting in the Horton lobby together, helping one another work on memorizing the book of Romans. (A noble task of which I only finished a chapter or two, but which I do believe my dear and virtuous friend accomplished in entirety...) There was quite a crowd watching television, absurd for 6:30 am., and rather annoying. Slowly I became aware that Sharon wasn't paying any attention to my recitation, eyes glued to the television screen. I turned around to see what was going on, and slowly I became aware that this wasn't a horror flick, wasn't a spoof, but a live news broadcast. The reporters at the site were as bewildered as I. All across the nation, we watched together as the burning tower crumbled, and as a second plane crashed into its twin.

And then the Pentagon.

And then...

An empty field in rural Pennsylvania, somewhere in Somerset County. The heroes of flight 93 were a light and an inspiration, a shining ray of hope on this dark, dark morning.

I remember the next morning, too, wondering if I would see smoke on the horizon, and wondering if it would be from Anaheim to the east or Los Angeles in the west.

But there was no smoke. Our safety has not been incidental, nor has it been cheap.

And today, the day after 9/11, I want to say thank you.

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