An Ordinary Morning, An Unforgettable Day

Where were you when the world stopped turning on that September day?

A lot of people will be pondering that same thought today, and maybe even in the days leading up to this. For the people who lived the actual tragedy, I know it doesn’t leave them. My prayers are, of course, with them and with the families who lost loved ones on that horrific day.

But I think most of us who were alive that morning can remember exactly where we were. What we were doing. Who we were with.

And I remember very specifically what I was doing.

I had dropped my kids off at daycare and gone to work, just like any other morning. I worked at International Paper, and I thought I was going to have a completely normal day.

My job that morning was to put together the plant manager’s production report from the previous day. I walked in, and all of the reports I needed from the different areas of the mill were sitting on my desk: sawmill, planer mill, shipping, and all the other numbers that went into that report.

It was a normal morning.

I sat down and started working.

Our office was small. It was the plant manager, myself, and two other ladies. We each had our responsibilities, and we were all doing our normal morning tasks.

I remember entering numbers into Excel, pulling everything together so I could give the plant manager his production report on time. I actually loved that part of my job. I loved Excel. I loved numbers. I loved taking all those little pieces of information from the day before and watching them come together into one report that told a bigger story.

You could look at those numbers and see how the mill was doing. You could compare one day to the next. You could spot problems. It was important work, and there was a deadline.

But then everything changed.

I remember hearing one of the ladies in the office make a noise. It wasn’t really a word. It sounded like shock. Almost fear.

My back was to the window between our offices, so I turned around to see what was wrong. At first, I thought maybe something had happened with someone in her family. But she didn’t have a phone in her hand. She was just sitting there, looking stunned.

Then she stood up and came down the hallway toward us.

“Come here.”

She walked into the plant manager’s office, turned on the television, and there it was.

The news.

A plane had crashed.

We all stood there looking at the television and then at each other.

I remember the feeling more than anything.

Shock.

Fear.

Disbelief.

Because this was not something that happened.

Not here.

Not to us.

Not on an ordinary Tuesday morning.

And as we began listening to the news reports, that production report that had seemed so important just moments before suddenly didn’t matter anymore.

All those numbers I had been carefully entering into Excel didn’t matter.

The deadline didn’t matter.

The mill didn’t matter.

We were just watching.

Trying to understand what we were seeing.

And then I remembered something that made everything feel even more frightening.

I had just dropped my children off at daycare.

They were only about ten minutes away.

And suddenly, all I could think about was them.

My babies were there, and I was here.

I remember thinking about how completely normal that morning had been. I had gotten them ready, taken them to daycare, kissed them goodbye, and gone to work expecting to see them later that afternoon.

I had no idea that when I kissed them goodbye that morning, the world we were all so accustomed to waking up in was about to change.

That’s one of the things September 11 taught so many of us.

We don’t know which ordinary moment is going to become a moment we remember for the rest of our lives.

We don’t know which goodbye will become precious.

We don’t know which morning we’ll look back on and realize, I had no idea.

So today, as people remember where they were when the world stopped turning, I’m remembering too.

I’m remembering the little office at International Paper.

The reports on my desk.

The Excel spreadsheet.

The look on my coworker’s face.

The television in the plant manager’s office.

The disbelief.

And most of all, I’m remembering my children.

Because sometimes the moments that change us aren’t the moments we planned for. They’re the ordinary moments that suddenly remind us just how fragile, precious, and temporary this life really is.

Praying for each family impacted by the events of that September Day!