I don’t need to remind you about the events of this day twelve years ago. You know exactly where you were, what you were doing, and how you first learned about the chaos happening in New York City, Virginia, and Pennsylvania.

The erie images from that day don’t fade; it’s not hard to recall the terrifying scenes of Manhattan as smoke and debris covered the city.

Today, twelve years later, Americans still feel the pain that entered their lives as some three thousand people were claimed in the 9/11 attacks. An NYC ceremony honors the victims as friends and family read the names of each one who died that day, and observe several moments of silence throughout the morning. I’m listening to the ceremony as I write. Tears are not far.

An Apt Artwork

In the footprints of the two towers now sit two pools, not filled, but water runs down each side into a deeper hole in the center. The pools represent the holes that were left in our society, not from the buildings, but from the brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, moms, dads, sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, and grandparents that are gone. They were businessmen and women, firefighters, emergency workers, tourists, travelers.

They’re gone, and they’re irreplaceable. The memorial is chilling, but an appropriate tribute for a nation that refuses to forget.

Twelve years doesn’t erase a memory. It doesn’t assuage pain, and it doesn’t make all things right. But it does give us time to remember. To honor. To trust God.