Each September 11th Americans take time to remember the 2,977 people killed in the September 11, 2001 attacks and the many people who responded to the attacks with courage, heroism, and patriotism.
On this day Americans fly the flag at half-staff and pause for a moment of silence at 8:46 AM Eastern time, the time the first plane struck the North Tower of the World Trade Center.
Here are some resources to observe 9/11.
Video Remembrance: "The Prayer of the Children"
A Story for Children: "The Little Chapel That Stood"
Looking for a meaningful story to share with your family on 9/11? Here is one on video.
The message of "The Little Chapel That Stood" is that America is a great nation. Terror is temporary and does not stay, but the freedom and courage of the American people are extraordinary and abiding.
The actual story begins at 7:43. To skip to that point, move your cursor to 7:43 on the time bar and click on it.
Links to Other Resources
* 9/11 Tribute: There She Stands
* Sights and Sounds of 9/11 Anniversary
* The Hero Who Predicted 9/11 (Very inspirational!)
* Boatlift - A September 11 Story
A Poem to Memorialize the Terrorist Attack
Jenny Scoville Walsh wrote this poignant remembrance on the night of September 11, 2001.
She couldn't sleep until she wrote everything she was thinking and feeling on that horrible day. Thank you Jenny!
"New York: September 11, 20011"
By: Jenny Scoville Walsh
Copyright 2001
We watched the screen, horrified:
Though we’d seen the collapse
A hundred times
From ten points of view;
It couldn’t be true.
No warning. No warning at all.
One minute filing papers, meetings,
Presentations, new promotions, interviews,
Potential clients, tours, shopping,
Drinking a Coke, grabbing a Danish,
Then shocked oblivion:
The airplane’s blast an exploding sun--
Evacuation for the lucky ones.
Dutifully, police then come
To serve, protect, direct mass exit.
Firefighters spray the blaze;
Exhausted from walking up flights and flights
And flights of stairs.
Caught unawares
These brave ones crushed by falling death.
Thousands of tapers
Blown out by heaving sigh,
Groaning under steel and cement
Dropped from blue sky.
Thousands of papers
Covered with soot,
Once carefully filed,
Now scattered for miles.
Rescuers trudge over them,
Searching for valuables under the rubble.
New Yorkers don’t push, don’t yell, don’t loot.
Instead offer hands, offer time, offer blood.
And we decry the evil, embrace the mourning,
Send supplies and inundate the Red Cross with volunteers.
Our humanity combats the terror.
Still we watch . . . and count.
Number each loss of fathers, mothers, daughters, sons,
Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins.
The children never again picked up from day care by parents.
Weddings which will never be.
Ball games with Dad indefinitely delayed.
Vacations ending in triage or morgues.
Dry cleaning with missing owners.
Lifetimes of unfinished business.
A thousand stings of reality.
Then ponder our own drive to work,
Of last words spoken before leaving,
And the warmth of the embrace we gave once home
As we touched them like it was our first . . . or last time.
The living—shall we yet live?
Those of us more lightly touched
Feel haunted by our lost security.
We’ll hold each other longer at airports,
Leave everyone with a kinder goodbye,
And greet strangers, now siblings in this dreadful birth.
Those whose grief more deeply lies
Will feel the grip of this day on their hearts,
Though loosen slightly over years,
Never really disappear.
Each day, to wonder and decide:
Is life a curse, from which to hide?
A nightmare that the morning’s wake
But continues barren ache?
Or life a gift—first sullenly received,
But later loved more fully for its fragility?
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