Like most Americans, I have watched in stunned
silence -- for days now -- the surreal images on TV. 
For
hours, all day and into the night day after day, I have listened in
a state of shock.
But it was not until I heard Mark Bingham's mother
describing her son's last phone call to her from a cell phone aboard
his doomed flight, that finally I wept, my numbed emotions disintegrating
into sobs. Mark just called to say goodbye, and that he loved his
family, his final, heartbreaking phone call one among many placed
that terrible morning. I wept a mother's tears for Mark, for his mother,
and for all the victims and their families.
The tears turned numb again and another day passed
with the television news a constant companion. The second flood of
tears for me came when a young women played for FoxNews the recorded
message her brother left for her. Everything's on fire here, he told
her. I know we're going to die. Tell Mom I love her. And I love you.
Please forgive me for anything bad I did to you and remember the good
times.
We are a nation in mourning. Our daily chores, our
jobs, our routines seem trivial, even unimportant. It is hard to shake
loose from the trance we are in.
We mourn the terrible loss of life, our sense of security
crushed beneath tons of steel, our innocence engulfed in the flames
of jet fuel.
We mourn the shining faces full of promise in the
photographs distributed by loved ones. We know they are gone. Many
of our best and brightest are simply gone. Off to work in the morning,
gone before the first cup of coffee cools as an airliner flies not
once but twice into New York's tallest skyscrapers and again into
our country's defense headquarters. We are haunted by the images of
those who simply jumped or fell to their deaths.
Yet in our grief we are also in our finest hour. We
are reminded of who we are. We rush in to help if we can. If not,
we help in other ways. We put up our flags, wear stickers on our lapel,
put banners on our websites, messages on our cars. We roll up our
sleeves to give blood, we open our wallets to send the Red Cross a
donation. We do this easily because we have always done this in our
own quiet ways.
You terrorists do not know us.
Beneath our tears, we're mad as hell. This time, we
want blood. We want death, not justice. There can be no justice for
such heinous acts. Only God can deliver the justice these barbarians
deserve. My own belief is they will suffer the wrath they have caused.
In eternity a loving God will simply help these terrorists feel every
heart break, cry every tear. What could be worse?
Still, we are afraid. I think for too long we have
been afraid to wield our power. We have always walked gently. It is
time we use our big stick. We wonder if we are up to the challenge
so bravely faced by generations before us. We wonder what kind of
world our children will inherit because what we do now will define
that world. When a mother is confronted with her children in danger,
there is nothing she won't do to protect them.
It is time for mother hawk to spread her wings and
attack.
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Thanks for stopping by. Please visit again soon - Julie Wolpers
