There are moments in history that leave an indelible mark on the collective memory of a nation. September 11, 2001, is one such day, a day when Americans were confronted with the unimaginable horror of terrorism on their own soil.
I remember that morning clearly. I was driving to work when the news broke over the radio: a plane has crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City. Shocked, I instinctively pressed harder on the gas pedal, weaving through traffic as I raced to the office. I worked in the marketing department for Southwest Airlines, and our building was located next to the Nashville airport. My boss was already heading to a meeting in downtown Nashville, so I quickly called her. “You need to come back to the office,” I said. “America is under attack.”
When I arrived at the office, I turned on the television in our office just in time to witness the second plane crashing into the South Tower. My heart sank. As leaders at Southwest, we had been trained to handle crises and media situations, but this was far beyond anything we could have ever prepared for. For a moment, I was frozen in disbelief, trying to comprehend the enormity of what I was seeing.
We immediately began contacting our managers at the airport and headquarters, awaiting further instructions. While we were on standby, reports came in of more hijackings. The uncertainty gnawed at us—could one of our planes be involved? Regardless, we knew it was all hands-on deck.
Soon after, the FAA grounded all flights across the country. The silence was eerie. Planes that were still in the air were ordered to land at the nearest available airport. By the end of the day, two more planes had crashed, and the heartbreaking stories of the heroes on those flights began to emerge.
It would be three full days before any flights were allowed to take off again. My husband and son, both avid ham radio operators, kept track of what was happening through their channels, often hearing news before it reached the mainstream media. Our office had a large window overlooking the airport’s runways, and the stillness outside was haunting. No planes taking off. No planes landing. Just silence.
The day after the shutdown, our office phone started ringing. At first, it was people desperately trying to locate loved ones who had been on flights. Then, the calls shifted. Local residents, hearing that nearby hotels were at capacity, began offering their homes to passengers stranded in Nashville. I’ll never forget one woman who called and said, “I have a spare bedroom and can cook dinner for anyone who needs a warm meal and place to stay.” Another offered to shuttle passengers to her home. It was incredible how quickly the community rallied to help complete strangers.
I am sure it happened in many parts of the country, but I it was overwhelming to see how many people truly cared.
The kindness and compassion I witnessed that day were overwhelming. As the days went on, stories from around the country emerged—of people opening their homes, providing food, and helping passengers stranded far from home find comfort in the midst of the chaos. Thousands of lives were lost, including the brave first responders who ran toward danger while others fled. Their courage was matched only by the resilience and generosity of ordinary citizens.
This is the America I grew up knowing. A country where neighbors help neighbors, where we are united in times of tragedy, and where, in the face of unimaginable loss, we find strength in each other. In the days that followed, we prayed together, and we promised we would never forget.
“Return, ye backsliding children, and I will heal your backslidings. Behold, we come unto thee; for thou art the LORD our God.”
Jeremiah 3:22 KJV
