I remember the first as if it were yesterday, walking out into the crisp perfection of that September morning, finding myself angry at the very beauty of it.
An eleven-year-old kid, furious that the heavens themselves did not weep for the lives lost that day. Asking as so many did, “Why?”
And I remember last year, penning a blog post in remembrance of that very day. . .when the reports began to come across the wires. We’d been attacked again–this time on the sovereign ground of a United States consulate. An ambassador murdered, for the first time in decades. Navy SEALs killed defending him–men who weren’t even supposed to be there. But they’d done what Americans have always done through the years. . .they’d run toward the sound of the guns. And gone down fighting.
But this time–the world didn’t stop turning. And as I sit here today, a year later, a mention of Benghazi–of Glen Doherty, of Tyrone Woods, of Christopher Stevens, brings little but a blank look to the faces of most Americans.
And again, I find myself asking, “Why?” and with no less anger than I did on that first September morning. Because this time there was no response–no vengeance to be had. The American giant was not even roused from slumber, let alone awoken.
But never forget this. . .so long as you live. There were two 9/11s. And one remains unpaid.