Just as for the assassination of JFK, we all remember exactly where we were.
I was asleep in my bedroom in Ireland, after an early run to the airport in Shannon to pick up someone joining one of my groups. A friend, who was on his way to Dublin, called me on my mobile told me to look at CNN, that a plane had had crashed into the WTT. I thought "small plane, accident," and went back to sleep. He called again. This time he said "Your country is under attack!" I went down and turned on the TV. I felt so helpless, so out of place, and wanted to return home immediately.
But the Irish people were wonderful. Everywhere, even on the wee roads of our neighborhood there, they would stop me and hug me tearfully wanting to know what they could do for me. I was deeply touched. But not as overwhelmingly touched as I was that Friday when a Mass of Consolation was held for us in the village church. With homemade American flags, courtesy of the school children, a chorus of school kids, and a piper, a fiddler, and some other musicians. The church was full of crying people. The service was in Irish, as is mandated for that church, and to this day I am most thankful that I had enough Irish to speak to them and thank them in their own language.
Like so many other Americans, it is a week that will live forever in my memory.
On the 14th, its anniversary, I will post about the Mass.