I like to forget painful things. For the most part it works. It isn’t that I bury them and never deal. It is that I deal as fast as I can, move on and on the occasion that the memory pops back up, I usually etch-a -sketch it out of my mind. I will literally be daydreaming and then shake my head, forcing it out and then move on. Eventually the memories and their impact on me lesson and I can recall or discus the event without tears or much emotion thus healing has occurred, at least for me.

There are two events that doesn’t work with. The day my brother committed suicide, May 8th, 2001 and the day our country was attacked, September 11, 2001. That was a bad year. I can recall with scary detail every single second of both those days and both days still elicit strong emotions of pain and sadness.

On May 8th I learned that the loss of a loved one unexpectedly, regardless of cause, is so devastatingly painful there are literally no words. The pain so envelops you that even though the world continues to spin and go about it’s business, yours is frozen in what seems like a horror movie perpetually playing in slow motion. On September 11th and the days that followed, I learned what sacrifice means.

On September 11th we lived in California just outside of Camp Pendleton. My husband was already on the base serving as the HQ Battalion Logistics officer. Eventually he would become the Truck Co CO 1st Marine Division and lead 435 Marines across the Line of Departure. That day embarked us on a crazy almost surreal journey. One that to this day hasn’t really ended for any of us.

I remember sitting on the couch in our upstairs TV room not really watching some football game while my husband painted the walls feverishly. It was the night before he was to leave for Iraq and for some reason it was vitally important to him that he finish painting that room. I was once again frozen. I did not want my husband to die for his country, our country and I did not want him to die for you. I wanted him to curl up on the couch with me in  a half painted room and live life like we had on September 10th 2001. My husband came home from that war. A blessing that seems random, but one I am thankful for nonetheless.

I always want to commemorate this day somehow, but find that I either say too much or not enough. Everything seems trite. I would rather not say anything, but silence leaves the impression of not caring or not remembering and that couldn’t be further from the truth.

So, as I struggle with the right thing to say, go read Weer’d’s post. I think he says it very well. What a gift it would be for further generations to have the blessing of a peaceful nation and so much healing they won’t remember what happened on that day, but for us, for those that lived it, that lost friends and loved ones, for those of us still fighting the effects of what has happened to our country because of it…we will never forget.