what the day President Kennedy was assassinated,
is to my parents.
I will forever be able to close my eyes and see the images on TV the morning of 9-11. I can hear our friend's voice calling, telling me to turn on the TV, picture myself sitting in disbelief as I watched the towers burn.
I know exactly where I was on I-5, when my little sister said, with panic in her voice,
"They keep going in those buildings!
Why do they keep going in?!"
I was newly wed to my high school sweetheart-a firefighter, pregnant with our first baby the world was a safe and beautiful place for us.
Every year I'm tempted to re-hash my version of where I was the day the towers fell.
The day that hundreds of firefighters entered those doomed buildings.
The day that rocked my world and many, many others.
I have been married to a firefighter for 12 years now.
In that time I have noticed a few common characteristics of firefighters.
Many choose the profession so they can make a difference in their communities.
They also choose the profession so that they can be home and help raise their children, so that they can take an active role in family life.
You know Mark was the primary care-giver, don't you?
These individuals are our communities coaches, leaders of nonprofit organizations, fundraisers for numerous worthy causes, and the people many turn to when they need help caring for a sick or injured loved one, help with a broken waterline, replacing broken things, all kinds of jobs.
They are motivated, self-driven individuals who learn quickly how to pitch in and do what is needed in their community- for friends, neighbors, and people in need.
They spend many holidays protecting our communities, missing that time with their own loved ones.
He has big strong hands.
I've always felt better when they're around my waist, on my shoulder, or holding my hand.
When I look at them, I see hands that have held our brand new babies, changed diapers, checked for fever, cleaned countless owies, built our house, and lead us through our blessed life.
Those hands have worked hard to make a good life for us.
Those hands have also carried our dying 92 year old neighbor, treated people injured and in their darkest hour, they have vented burning buildings, lead a fire hose through burning buildings, and cut people out of their cars.
They have gripped the steering wheel of the fire engine as it has gone to countless emergencies, waved to children staring at the fire engine passing by, maybe honked the horn a time or two at friends to make them jump, and guided a funeral procession for our sweet friend lost far too soon.
Those hands have corrected bat swings, caught more baseballs than anyone could count, tossed footballs, shot baskets and shepherded not only our children but many others as coach for many of our children's sporting events.
They make a mean jambalaya, chicken wings, and the best smoked beans you've ever tasted.
Those hands belong to my hero.
To a man I could never imagine not being my better half. Those hands have held mine for over half our lives.
They belong to a husband, a father, a neighbor, a brother, a son, a coach, an artist, and a firefighter.
Those 343 firefighters lost on 9-11 were someone else's hero.
They were more than just firefighters.
They too, were husbands, fathers, neighbors, brothers, sons, coaches, artists, and firefighters.
That's what breaks my heart when I look at this photo.
Those 343+ brave souls marched right in those buildings to save lives.
They made a difference.
And I will never forget their sacrifice.
I count myself lucky that mine comes home after each shift, I pray that he will always be returned to us safely, so that he can continue his beautiful life that touches so many.
I'm proud to call him my husband and my hero.
