It’s hard to believe that it has been nine years since the destruction of the World Trade Center.  Like so many others, I remember it so clearly.

The sense of violation, the senseless carnage, the simultaneous attack on the Pentagon, the fear of unaccounted planes yet in the air.  Then finally, the news of the plane crash in Pennsylvania.

I was a computer software instructor teaching a class on enterprise network administration at a computer training center located at the rear of a local CompUSA.  By special arrangement, we had agreed to teach a class of one for a nearby small business.

Our receptionist-coordinator hesitated at first to interrupt the class in progress, but then stepped into the room.  Her expression was one of shock.  Almost whispering she said simply, “I didn’t want to interrupt, but I felt that you both would want to see this.

She turned, and my student and I followed her into our break room where most of the employees had gathered before a large TV —  the large retail area practically abandoned by customers and employees alike.

In the disbelief shared with most of the world, we watched as the two towers struggled and in turn collapsed.

Early estimates suggested as many as ten thousand people could have been in the towers at the time of impact.  Efforts at evacuation ended suddenly as the towering infernos began to melt and disintegrate, filling the city with the sickly gray ash.

A former minister and no stranger to families in crises, I thought of all the homes impacted, thousands.  How do you plan thousands of funerals for one week?

Soon it became clear that this was an act of war at the hands of Muslim extremists, an attack that was being compared to Pearl Harbor.

Inexplicably, my mind went to the many Muslim Americans in our country.  I recalled the stories my parents told me about how after Pearl Harbor thousands of Japanese Americans were herded up and sent to camps.

I remember asking my mom about this, and she said, “Larry it doesn’t seem right now, but back then we were against the Japs and they were Japs.  It just made sense somehow.”

“Dear God”, I silently prayed.  “Help us to do better than that.” And I remember getting by myself and praying for the families losing loved ones, and for the Muslim people in my country — people that I had never met, and who I might never meet.  But I knew they were there, and I knew our history, and I was afraid for innocent families who might be terrorized.

I was relieved somewhat when President Bush went to great pains to uphold the dignity of our Muslim citizens, insisting that we knew the difference between Muslims in general, and the radical militant terrorists who had attacked us.

A few years later I became a software trainer / support person in the IT department of a local university, and  (quite separate from my work role) had the opportunity to host a series of informal lunch discussions for students and employees of various faiths. There I met one the university students, a young Muslim woman in traditional headscarf, who felt comfortable enough in our random assortment of believers to share about her life in New York City in 2001.

“I had friends in the towers that day,” she explained, her beautiful eyes a bit misty. “It was so hard to handle the loss,” she continued.  “And then there was the backlash.”

I surprised myself when I replied to her, “You had no way of knowing it, and I didn’t know you then, but I prayed for you.”  For indeed I had, and there she was, fresh from NY City and 9/11.

She shared a little more. “9/11 changed my life.  As a teenager I had not been very serious about religion, but after the attacks I became more devout in my search for my spiritual roots.”

I admired her, understanding that while the public expression of her religious identity had made her vulnerable to the angry seeking a target, her headscarf actually spoke of a sensitive, burdened soul seeking strength in her Muslim faith.