I love this photograph. My wife took it of our girls on the evening of Saturday, Sept. 8, 2001. We were waiting for the ferry to take us to Ellis Island for an evening of dinner and dancing. And, yes, those are the Twin Towers in the background, just three days before they fell.
Back then I worked in the national office of Catholic Charities USA in northern Virginia. Every year in September the faith-based service organization sponsored a national gathering for all of its affiliates. That year we were in Newark, New Jersey, just across the river from Manhattan.
As a member of the national staff, I was required to fly up early on Monday (Sept. 3) to help with preparations for the hundreds of people who would start arriving Wednesday. Whenever I could, I would try and take my family along on those fun work trips. But with two of our daughters in grade school, we planned for my wife to drive up in our van at the end of the week with the kids and the spouse of a colleague.
That Friday, my wife called just after 3 p.m. to tell me they were getting on the road. I estimated the drive would take them about four hours from our house in Bethesda, Maryland. At 7 p.m. I stationed myself in front of the Doubletree hotel and convention center, next to the valet stand, waiting for my family to arrive. While I waited, the executive director from the Oakland Charities office saw me and came over to talk. Her name was Barbara and she was a very sweet lady. We chatted for about 20 minutes before our green Ford Windstar pulled into the driveway.
When the van came to a stop, the side door slid open and out jumped my beautiful little girls ages 8, 5, and 2. They came running over shouting, “Daddy!”
I was so happy to see them that I didn’t even notice, while they were hugging and kissing me, that they weren’t wearing shoes, they had Cheetos in their wild hair, and they were wiping their runny noses on my coat. It was then that my wife came around the van and looked at me without smiling.
“Here are your children,” she said grimly.
In that moment, I realized what an ordeal driving up the I-95 with our energetic offspring must have been. I sensed that I better take charge of them and give my poor wife a much-needed break.
So, I asked the girls if they could help me get the luggage and bags out of the van and up to our room. Before they could answer, Barbara chimed in with a suggestion: What if she brought them up to her room so she could brush their hair and clean them up? Now that her daughter was a grown woman with kids of her own, she explained, she missed her terribly — particularly the ritual of brushing her hair. Being able to brush the hair of these beautiful angels would really mean a lot to her.
My daughters have never been shy (not then and not now), but their response surprised me because they had never met Barbara.
“Yes! Yay we’re going in the hotel!” they immediately yelled. “She called us beautiful angels, we like her!”
What was really surprising, though, was my wife’s reaction. Although she had never met Barbara either, she just shrugged her shoulders and said, “If you want to brush all that hair, be my guest. As for me, just point me toward the nearest Starbucks.”
Barbara was awesome. When she delivered the girls back to us a couple of hours later, their hair was brushed with no traces of Cheetos. Two of them had really cute braids. Their faces were totally clean; no trace of runny noses on any of them. My wife and I were very impressed.
The weekend was a blast. On Saturday, while I was in my meetings, my wife and daughters swam in the hotel pool and ate in the hotel restaurant. That evening, we got dressed up and took them on their very first ferry ride out to Ellis Island. For Sunday, we attended a special Mass in the hotel and went sightseeing in Manhattan.
Back then, there was a NYTIX booth at the base of the Twin Towers that sold discounted last-minute tickets for Broadway shows. We spent part of the afternoon playing in the courtyard there in between the two Towers while getting tickets for a show called “Stomp.” It involved a lot of stomping, banging, and dancing; the girls loved it.
As we got onto the New Jersey Turnpike in our green van on Monday to head back home, our girls waved goodbye to Manhattan through the windows and asked repeatedly, “When are we going back to New York City again?”
As for Sept. 11, I can remember virtually every minute of that day. We began watching it unfold on TV in slow motion replay. Right after the news reported that the Pentagon had been hit, our girls’ school called to say all of the children had to be picked up ASAP. While we drove to the school, the radio relayed all kinds of “unconfirmed reports” that scared us even more: that bombs had gone off at the Capitol (not true), that Andrews Air Force base was under attack (not true), and that another plane had been hijacked and was heading toward the White House (that one turned out to be true).
When we finally got home we prayed. In fact, we prayed a lot that day.
For the next few days, the D.C. area practically closed. Metro trains and buses were not running, airports were closed, and many local businesses and government agencies decided to temporarily shut down. I remember we were all so afraid there would be more attacks, but with each passing day the fear, thankfully, dissipated.
As businesses began to reopen on Friday, I headed to my office in Alexandria, Virginia, on the Yellow Line train. All of us on staff were asked to make sure that the Charities’ offices in New York City, Brooklyn, and Newark all had the resources they needed to continue serving those in need, especially those affected by the terrorist attacks. There was a lot to do.
Around lunchtime, a group of our Charities colleagues, mostly from western states, walked in. Having been stuck in Newark due to flight cancellations, they were finally able to rent cars to make the cross-country journey home. On their way, they thought to stop by and let us know what was going on.
Everyone was hugging and sharing their experiences when I caught sight of Barbara among the group. Seeing me, she raced over and gave me a bear hug. Then she burst out crying.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. I told myself that when I saw you again I would say thank you; especially to those little angels.”
Confused, I asked why she needed to thank us. Barbara began by saying she needed to thank us for her cold. That was when I noticed she sounded a little congested.
Apparently, she’d caught the cold that Friday evening in her hotel room from my daughters as she brushed their hair and cleaned their faces. By Tuesday, when it was time to get on her plane flight home, she couldn’t go because her sinuses hurt so bad.
Barbara was supposed to be on United Airlines Flight 93 from Newark to San Francisco. That was the plane that was hijacked and headed to D.C., likely toward the White House. It was also the flight where the passengers fought back causing it, instead, to nosedive and crash into a field somewhere in Pennsylvania.
“By the grace of God, I’m still here,” she said, still crying a little and hugging me a lot.
Like I said, I love this photograph.
Whenever I look at it, my mind is filled with so many vivid memories. It reminds me of just how beautifully young and innocent our little angels were as little girls, and how much fun we had that weekend as a family.
But when I look at the photo, I also remember how frightening Sept. 11 was, and the heartache we all felt over losing so many, so suddenly. I remember the fear and helplessness we felt in the aftermath, and wondering if our lives would ever go back to being “normal” again.
Even today, before giving in to those feelings of fear and helplessness still generated by news of wars and terrorist attacks around the globe, I always try to remember the hope and truth that Barbara shared with me.
“By the grace of God, I’m still here.”
