Twenty Years Ago

Twenty years ago today, I was working onboard a ship docked in Germany. I spent the day with a friend visiting from the States — we had been out buying bunches of flowers for a colleague’s birthday that afternoon. We arrived back onboard with arms full of roses, innocently oblivious to what was happening an ocean away.

We didn’t have reliable internet onboard at the time, and I’m still not sure how the news traveled to the ship, but I do remember feeling like we were the last people onboard to find out that planes were crashing into buildings in America. As soon as we realized the severity, we dashed to my cabin, calculating time zones to call home.

New York City and Washington DC were each three hours from my family’s house by car. If you were to draw an isosceles triangle between the towers, the Pentagon and where the plane went down in Shanksville, my childhood hometown in Pennsylvania was pretty much smack in the middle. It felt like forever until I finally got through to my mother, who got to work that morning, only to be sent home early. The next day, she went out to purchase her first-ever cell phone — she never wanted to be unreachable again.

The next morning, I awoke in my cocoon of a bunk bed onboard, a map of Europe pinned next to my head, with the sobering realization that the world I lived in had changed forever. Later that day, I put my visiting friend on a train bound for another part of Europe — as we clutched each other goodbye in this larger than life station, whispering for fear of our accents being overheard, we both eerily felt like we were living out some twisted scene from World War II.

Friends that I knew in and around NYC were shaken but safe, while story after story slowly emerged of both heartbreak and heroism.

The ship sailed to Gibraltar weeks later, picking up a satellite system which would eventually provide the crew with 24/7 Internet access. As soon as it was installed, I was at my computer each morning before my daily run to check the news headlines. I didn’t want to be caught off guard again by not knowing the news. (I’m sure 9/11 is the reason I always scan the headlines of a number of news networks on my phone before I even check my email when I wake up in the mornings.)

We later sailed to Sierra Leone, West Africa, and as a writer there, I felt like I was drowning in stories of death and destruction from the moment we arrived. I have however, always had a wonderfully horrific way of detaching myself from a scene in order to get a story. I can interview people who have had their arms chopped off by rebel soldiers, or who are missing half their face from a medical issue, and show zero emotion while asking questions and writing notes. It is both a gift and a curse. It is what made me a good reporter in many ways for years. It has also portrayed me as a somewhat callous and non-compassionate person on the outside.

I do still have feelings on the inside, however, and sometimes they come crashing out clumsily when nobody is watching — hours after an interview, or perhaps after five interviews and only five minutes, when I’m all alone with my notes and I replay the stories I’ve heard, in my head.

Words carry a tremendous amount of weight. I know, because I can I feel the heaviness on my keyboard in the words as I type, depending on the subject matter. Even as a fast writer, I have always carefully considered how — and when and even why — to tell a story. I’m telling you this one because words matter — whether they are spoken, written as a story, or made in a comment on a social media post.

I can look at 1,000 photos of the destruction of what happened on September 11th, but at the end of the day, the words spoken between Todd Beamer on United Flight #93 and the 911 dispatcher are what make me crumble. Hours after the planes crashed, we crowded into a tiny room onboard the ship to listen to the Voice of America. The words spoken over a radio are what made that day very real to a scared 26-year-old on the other side of the world.

Because I was overseas, I didn’t necessarily experience the unwavering patriotism and the united feeling that most Americans felt immediately in the days and weeks following 9/11. What I did experience was the compassion and unity of a crew from 40 plus countries coming together to pray for a nation — and the world — to pray for peace, to pray for comfort, to speak words of life over those who survived. We didn’t have all of the information coming at us at rapid speed like we do today, firing at us from all directions, but what we did have was the knowledge that people had died, and a nation was hurting.

That’s all we needed to know in that moment. We (even people like me) had compassion on people we did not even know. We showed kindness and love to each other, and to complete strangers. We spoke words of encouragement and support.

So much in the world was uncertain and so much more has changed since that day — we can’t imagine life without cell phones and social media, and yet there were no cell phone photos of 9/11 as it happened — no live tweets, no Instagram posts, no Facebook status updates for people to mark themselves as ‘safe’.

Twenty years later, the world continues to remain uncertain.

Twenty years later, people all over the world are still hurting — not only from the scars of 9/11, but from a myriad of other tragedies — people in your own neighborhood, people across the US, people in countries most of us have never heard of with names we can’t pronounce.

Twenty years later, our words still matter — to ourselves, to our friends, to complete strangers. That too, is something to never forget.

Typing Stories

I decided not to do National Novel Writing Month this year. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. I have three posters advertising the month-long literary pursuit hanging in my house — one for each year I 'won' NaNoWriMo. For the past three years, I proved (mainly to myself) that I can crank out 50,000 words in 30 days with a loose story in between, and still survive.

This year, though, I didn’t really feel like writing an entire novel in November. Perhaps subliminally, I didn't want to be the writer who only did NaNoWriMo and then never bothered to get a book published.   

I have also just been uncannily grumpy for a long time. I suspected that piling 50,000 words onto my schedule (and not getting paid for it) would add to my overall bad mood.

I’ve always had a cranky side to me, but motherhood has brought it out in full force. 

I blame the lack of sleep and the numerous stressful events in my life, including, but not limited to, my brother's death, moving to a new city (and moving two more times within that city), having a baby, the Sailor’s promotion to Captain and haphazard schedule, a twin miscarriage and the hospitalization of my mom. (Pro tip: when a crisis happens to someone you know, just show up.)

I tried to blame my mood on everyone and everything, but in the end, the Sailor told me I needed to find my purpose. I found myself tearing up at his words, but he was right. He often is.

I have been foundering for a long time, and even though deep down I knew I was sinking, he offered me a life ring. 

A year ago, I purged a ton of Pyrex and started selling stuff I no longer wanted around the house. In doing so, I realized not only how much junk I’ve accumulated over my life, but how many jobs I’ve had and how many identities I’ve carried around with me.

I have been, among many other things, a runner, traveler, writer, thrifter, maker, crafter, daughter, caretaker, teacher, canoe instructor, cook, server, journalist, volunteer, friend, soccer player, photographer, wife.

And then I added mom to that list, and everything else seemed to dissolve away, because, well — kids are intense. Of course I know that children are the greatest gift. But sometimes our identity gets so wrapped up in mommyhood that we forget who we were before this child came into our life. It almost feels like someone stole my identity and left me with a sleep-deprived, angry, grumpy one in its place. 

Motherhood does that to a person.

The Sailor told me to pray about it. And while I have always had a deep faith, over the years I have been somewhat blasé about it. For fear of offending people, I have shied away from even admitting that I am a praying person because of the reputation sometimes cast upon believers these days.

Living in the South will do that to a person.

So I silently prayed for my purpose. I knew the answer before I saw the literal sign. I have a framed picture of a typewriter on my wall, near my desk that reads, ‘Your story matters... Share it with the world.’

 

Your story matters.

There's a lot of truth in those three words. 

Within every ‘identity’ I’ve carried, I have always been a storyteller. Often the story is mine, although for years I wrote other people’s stories — tales of incredible people in far away places you’d have trouble finding on a traditional map.

I don’t know exactly when I stopped telling stories. Mine. Yours. God’s. I think it started when my mentor died. Not many people championed my writing like he did and when he died, a little of my soul seemed to go with him.
 
Writing is one of the few things that has stayed consistent in my life when everything else has changed. I have lived in numerous places and countries, taken on various jobs and roles, but I have always had my journals, my stories. And for nearly 20 years, I always had JH to tell me I was on the right track — whether I needed to pursue the story or scrap it.

Then, he was gone. And I felt like nobody reminded me to keep writing — to keep chasing stories. For over a year, I neglected this blog, not really knowing what to share. I wondered if people even read personal blogs anymore. Staying silent is not exactly a good way to honor the legacy of the man who taught me so much about writing, however. 

Actual writer's block.

Over these past few weeks, I tried to think back on the times when I felt the most alive, when life seemed to have the most meaning. Immediately, I saw myself in far away places. I’ve traveled a lot and it’s natural that I have amazing memories from the many locations I’ve lived. I’ve always assumed that a portion of my crankiness lately is because I live in the States now, and even though we do still travel a lot, I find myself pulling clothes out of a closet more often than a suitcase these days.

(I do prefer suitcases.)

For this walk down memory lane though, the location didn't matter so much as what I was actually doing in each of them.  

I remember a hostel on the hill in Budapest. I had an amazing view of the city from my window, but what I remember even more is how my fingers flew over my keyboard, racing to make a deadline.

I remember staying up late in my shared office in Mercy Ships, somewhere off the coast of West Africa, so I’d have a moment of quiet clarity to finalize a story.

I remember stumbling into a cafe, stunned, scribbling notes in a rain-soaked journal after a moving visit to Auschwitz.

I remember drinking super strong coffee from a tiny ceramic cup, listening to the sounds of rain, while writing in a mission building in Transcarpathia, Ukraine.

I remember wandering to my favorite cafe in the Canary Islands, tucking myself into a corner with a café con leche, while I wrote in my journal with a fountain pen.

I remember cradling my 3-month-old in a sling in this city where I now live, while I wrote my own eulogy to my former boss through a tear-filled haze.

I remember typing out random scenes in NaNoWriMo while the Peanut slept next to me, hoping he wouldn’t kick the keyboard and delete 10,000 words.

I remember all of these things because I felt alive. 

Oddly, many of the things I experienced and later wrote about were not all rosy and cosy. They were messy, distressing, uncomfortable, annoying. Kind of like my life on certain days. Yet writing about them made me feel alive.

It's been a rough few years. This past year especially has been a doozy, and I have felt less than alive, most days. Lately though, something seems to be changing. Maybe it’s God. Maybe it’s the literal sign on my wall. Maybe it’s just me unearthing what was always there. 

I remember now, that I have a story to tell. 

MY story matters.

My STORY matters.

My story MATTERS.

I may not have actually published a book by the age I wanted. But I have lived more in my years than many people ever will and I have the stories to prove it.   

This month, I won't get any bragging rights to 'winning' NaNoWriMo, but I am still writing a story. My story. I hope you'll stick around to read it.