There are no special dishes that we MUST have; no special piece of china that occupies the high ground of tradition. I guess there is a prayer that I try and say on each of these special occasions – Robert Louis Stevenson’s Prayer of Thanksgiving:
Lord, behold our family here assembled. We thank Thee for this place in which we dwell; for the love that unites us; for the peace accorded us this day; for the hope with which we expect the morrow; for the health, the work, the food, and the bright skies that make our lives delightful; and for our friends in all parts of the earth. Amen
I say that I try and say it because, invariably, the words are muted by my gratitude. But, in terms of ritual, it is about as close as I get.
On September 11, though, I have a ritual I have enacted since my oldest started school. As I recall, the morning of September 11, 2001 was one of sterling beauty in mid-Michigan. I distinctly remember walking out of my home and thinking it had been a long time since I had seen such a beautiful day.
Ten years later and we all know how that day ended. As the events unfolded on that morning, I found myself back at home – hugging my wife and young son and telling them both that I love them. I wondered then how I would ever explain that evil day to my son as he grew into a man.
Ten years later, that boy is now on the threshold of adolescence. Lean and tall, kind-hearted and patriotic – he has been asking lots of questions about September 11, 2001. His mom and I share with him that, at its heart, the story of 9/11 is a story of courage, and love, and heroism. It is a story that warns us not to let hatred tear at our common sense; it is the story of triumph and resilience. It is the story of how the passengers on flight 93 voted before they took action. It is an American story and an intensely human story.
So it dawns on me that one tradition I have that is immoveable is this – each September 11, I play hooky from work a little bit and I swing by Michael’s school at about 9:00 am. I go into the office and tell the secretary that I have to give him something I think he might have forgotten at home and ask would she please call him to the office. Then I stand in the hallway and wait for my Lochinvar in tennis shoes to come bounding down the hallway. What he gets is a kiss, a hug, and a reminder that his mom and I are immensely proud of him, love him and no matter what occurs ever, he should never forget that and he should never feel alone.
The tradition grew out of the idea that every person who was killed on 9/11 was just some person going about the details of leading their lives. One person that was ultimately deprived of a last hug; a last kiss – a final reassurance they mean the world to someone else.
As traditions go, I think it’s a keeper.
Thanks for stopping by my blog today – posts are slowing down just due to the sheer busyness of us leading our extraordinary ordinary lives. I hope wherever you are, however you mark the solemn occasion of 9/11’s sad anniversary – you do so among a crowd of those you love; and who love you, and that never far from your gaze this weekend is the beloved face of someone special to you. Also, in honor of all who perished then and after, I hope you take the time to remind those you love how cherished they are.
Dennis
Smalltowndad@hotmail.com
