babybloomr

Last evening when the four of us were sitting outside on the deck having dinner ( a kick-a** shrimp etouffee if I say so myself and I do), the subject of the events of September 11, 2001 came up. We were talking about what we remembered of that morning, that morning that seems like a million years/just 15 minutes ago.

Here’s what I remember:

Back in ’01, my friend Bonnie Keen and I had written a book proposal and landed ourselves a Real Live New York Literary Agent to represent us and shop it around. She had brought us one offer, a really lousy offer, and we had passed on it with her blessing, but the relationship was kind of deteriorating and Bonnie and I were becoming increasingly disenchanted with her. As much as we loved saying we had “an agent in NY”, the truth was she was ineffectual at best, in the midst of a career crisis (possibly leaving the professon altogether) and seemed to be rapidly losing interest in her job and our book. Bonnie and I may have been inexperienced, but the lack of contact and a seeming inability to return emails or phone calls was starting to indicate even to two naive Southern blondes that the shelf life on our Real Live New York Literary Agent had probably expired. We had been taking turns trying to contact her, and that morning, September 11, it was my turn. I settled into my roll-around desk chair in the ‘office’– it doubled as a guest room and cockatiel habitat (Hi Skybird!)– and prepared myself to make the call. I took a deep swig of coffee and did a little yoga breathing. The possibility of impending rejection always gets me a little breathless and queasy–also, it makes me talk even faster than usual, so I was trying to get a grip so I could sound all calm and professional-like when she dumped us.  (Thankfully, I’m an expansive, forgiving soul and not at all bitter. Stupid passive-aggressive weenie agent.)

So I dialed her number and waited for her answering machine to pick up so I could leave yet another message she wouldn’t return, when to my great surprise I heard her voice urgently say, “What? What have you heard?” into the phone. I stammered my name out and hurriedly shuffled papers around on my desk looking for the notes I had made with Bonnie on how we were going to handle this conversation, when she interrupted me by saying, “Listen, I can’t really talk right now. A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center and I have friends who work there.”

I asked a couple of rudimentary lame questions, crestfallen that I finally had her on the phone and she was blowing me off yet again. She said, “I think it was a private plane, maybe the pilot had a heart attack or something, but anyway it’s all over the news here and I’m waiting for a phone call from my friend.” The very real fear in her voice finally penetrated my selfish agenda, and I quickly got off the phone, but not before telling her that I would pray for her friends and hoped she would hear good news soon. After I hung up, I tried to call Bonnie to tell her, “TAG– YOU’RE IT! Your turn to call the agent now!” but she wasn’t home. I emailed her instead, changed the food and water in the cockatiel cage, and fixed myself another cup of coffee. As I wandered back upstairs to change clothes and start my day, I turned the TV on to CNN and tried to listen from inside the closet to see if anything was mentioned about the New York private plane incident. I remember stepping back into my bedroom and standing open-mouthed and half-dressed as on the screen, right in front of my eyes, a huge jet plunged into the side of the Tower and exploded into a fireball. And then I heard the raised, shocked voices of the newscasters as they said things like, “That’s another plane! The South Tower has now been hit!”, and I realized I was not watching a replay of what had happened earlier, but a live broadcast of another deliberate attack on U.S. soil– the first in my lifetime.

The rest of the day is kind of a blur. We turned on every television in the house and kept them on for the next 24 hours. Russ and I sat side by side on the bed, glued to the screen, holding hands and wondering if we should go pick the girls up from school. Madi Rose was a third grader and Charlotte was in kindergarten at our neighborhood school a few blocks away, and there was no good reason to go get them except for the fact that I just wanted them with me within hugging distance, safe and sound. I remember being on the phone off and on all day to my parents, my brothers and sisters, my friend Lynne down the street– all of us shocked and unbelieving, endlessly speculating as to why, and who, and what would happen next. I mostly remember the pictures flooding the TV screen, instantly iconic and seared into my consciousness…

Plummeting bodies of trapped workers, silently falling and tumbling through the air like autumn leaves.

The collapsing towers, pancaking down floor after floor, ending in a Hiroshima-like cloud of dust, debris and vaporized human beings.

Grey, toxic-ash-covered people looking like extras in a zombie movie, dazed and wandering or panicked and running through the canyons of the financial district.

Anguished rescuers carrying the broken body of Father Mychel Judge from the ruins of Tower One.

The steady stream of people fleeing their city on foot over the Brooklyn Bridge.

A gaping fiery hole in the Pentagon, the foam-covered brick wall buckling and crumpling to the ground.

The image of three firefighters raising an American flag in a scene eerily reminiscent of Iwo Jima.

Ground Zero, the smoking, shrouded, cathedral-like facade of all that was left of the towers

As we talked around the table last night, it all came flooding back to me; the fear, the anger, the entire nation in shock. Then Charlotte piped up and said, “You know what I remember about September 11? That’s when I asked Jesus to be in my heart.” There was a moment of silence, then all three of us turned to her and said, “What?” “Yeah,” she said, puzzled by our surprise. “Don’t you remember, Mom? That night when it was bedtime you were telling me all about what happened, and you were really sad and we were talking about praying for people, and God loving everybody, and then we talked about God living inside of us…”

I had completely forgotten.

I had not connected my memory of Charlotte’s sweet prayer with my memories of that horrible September 11th. But she was right, it was exactly the same day. “Wow,” I finally managed to say. “That’s right. I remember you asked a lot of questions and I could tell that you were really serious, even though you were so little. I just forgot that it was the night of the 9/11 attacks.”  “Well, it was,” Charlotte said as she picked up her plate to carry it back inside. “That was the good thing that happened that day.”

So thanks to Charlo, I have another memory, another picture to add to the ones I already carry in my heart of September 11, 2001– because that night as all of America cried out in pain and grief, there was also one small voice being raised to heaven full of innocence and faith. And I believe God heard all of them.

In sacred memory of all who lost their lives and their loved ones on September 11, 2001.

If there is anything I can’t stand it’s a person who’s judgmental, intolerant, and holier-than-thou. Especially when that person is, um, me.

A few posts ago, I wrote about the fact that yes, I am a Christian. A big ol’ Christian. My kids go to Christian schools, my husband is a gospel singer, blah blah blah–CHRISTIAN. However, as I explained, I have this inborn rebellious resistance to being lumped in with all of the stereotypes that people usually have of those who profess the Christian faith. And since gross generalizations and quick assumptions get on my last nerve, I am always very critical of people who are critical. However, though you may not know this about me, I have a bit of a snarky streak myself. (You could at least pretend to be a little shocked by this!)  If you have ever had the pleasure of watching a beauty pageant, political debate or America’s Next Top Model with me, this would have already become very apparent. However, I am not inherently mean-spirited or cavalier with other people’s feelings, so my snarkiness is usually combined with humor and kidding around. I don’t “go after” people, and I have no desire to publicly humiliate anyone. That being said, though, I do have a mouth on me. Mostly however, my snotty side is hidden behind my eyes. It manifests itself as snide little comments and observations inside my head. I can get away with murder in there– nobody gets hurt and I find myself endlessly amusing! 

But here’s the thing. I’ve noticed that some of my harshest and swiftest criticisms are usually towards other Christians. Maybe it’s a side effect of spending my adult life surrounded by ‘professional Christianity’– when business is mixed with beliefs, sometimes the lines can get a little blurred. Russ and I were young and idealistic when we were first exposed to this world, a world that included TV evangelists, religious record labels and Christian celebrities. We were friends with people who were very closely involved with mega-ministries and famous preachers and we got an earful. We knew too many inside stories behind some of the most unsavory spiritual scandals of the last few decades, and it definitely left us a little disillusioned and jaded. Now we’ve also had the opportunity to witness first-hand some truly unselfish, humble servants of God, too– the kind that have quietly spent their lives trying to put feet to their faith and leave the world a better place. So we’re not all cynical and surly about Christianity or anything, but there have been some times over the years when we’ve kind of taken an extended hiatus from some forms of Organized Religion– like church, for instance.

Then we had kids.

When Madi was about 2 or 3, we did that classic hypocritical baby boomer thing of deciding that though we hadn’t had always felt a burning desire to go ourselves, we definitely wanted our children to be raised in church. That was also about the time we met our new neighbor Becca Stevens, who just happened to be an Episcopal priest as well as a beautiful, hilarious, earthy, wise, fabulous woman who became one of my closest friends. And my pastor. God must have gotten a huge kick out of watching Russ, the son of a jumpin’, shoutin’, rollin Pentecostal preacher and me, raised on family Bible studies by deeply spiritual, lapsed Christadelphians (don’t even ask– no one else has ever heard of them either) end up in a tiny Episcopal chapel on the campus of Vanderbilt University with a woman priest and an eclectic congregation that ran the gamut from Yale to jail! I will always cherish our time at St. A’s. It allowed us to let down our defenses and become part of a community again, to unlearn and relearn what that truly means. But after a number of years, it seemed our season there was drawing to a close, and we moved to Brentwood at exactly the same time that St. A’s began a period of displacement because of major construction, so it kind of turned into a natural break.

Fast-forward two years, and here we are, three Sundays into a new relationship with a new church and new pastor and new congregation. It had been a while since the four of us stood side by side in a house of worship together, and it felt really good. Don’t get me wrong, we’re not ‘heatherns’ as Russ’ mom used to say (she also used to think ‘lesbian’ was pronounced ‘lezben’, but that’s another post…)– between Russ’ concerts, the girls’ schools, and our travels we put in a lot of pew-time; but that’s different than really having a church home. So you’d think that my reaction to this new development would be nothing but positive, right? All warm and squishy and full of singing angels and unicorns, right? Yeah, so did I. So imagine my chagrin when that judgmental voice in my head started in almost as soon as we walked in the building! I found myself absentmindedly critiquing everything from the hairdo on the person greeting us at the door to the lack of windows in the sanctuary. It was a completely unplanned knee-jerk response, like my brain was on auto-snark or something. I had a running commentary going- “I hope we don’t have to stand here for thirty minutes while some gospel cheerleader tries to “lead worship” by browbeating us into singing the same praise chorus a hundred times…” “If I take one of those cards when they ask who’s a visitor, we’ll probably have to endure a lot of awkward hugging by complete strangers…” About 10 minutes into the service, I finally woke up to what I was doing and was completely appalled. I was embodying the kind of small-minded, fault-finding attitude I cannot STAND in other people. If someone outside of my head had been trash-talking any group of people like I was inside my mind, I would have punched them out. And it was all so completely unnecessary! There was nothing there, nothing going on that remotely warranted my reaction. I think it was almost self-protective, like if I started out identifying the weak points maybe I wouldn’t get blind-sided when that church and those people (inevitably) let me down. It made me realize just how vulnerable I was, how wary I was of Organized Religion, and how very much I really did want to let my guard down and find a community again.

Once I became aware of what I was doing and why, it didn’t take a lot for me to give it up, to tell the sarcastic, snotty little teenage voice in my head to sit down and shut the hell up. In Christian love.  Like, I didn’t have to raise my hand and ask for an exorcism or anything, I simply decided not to do that anymore. Would that all of my character defects were that easy to get rid of! That is one of the benefits of getting older– the ability to look at things with clarity, and then just make a decision on whether or not that is something you want in your life. Almost makes up for the other things that come with getting older, like wrinkles and a saggy rear end. I said ALMOST.

So, that’s the story of how Tori Quieted Her Inner Snark and Got Her Church Groove Back. Coming soon to a Flip camera near you! Just kidding! I don’t think they’d let me film inside the church– although that would be fun, wouldn’t it? I could surreptitiously smuggle the camera in my purse and then keep up a running smart aleck commentary on everything that happened… Uh oh. 

Apparently I still have some work to do with that whole Inner Snark thing. (Also the Saggy Rear End thing, if we’re being honest here.)  Oh well. ‘Progress not perfection,’ you know.