And I Won't Forget The Men Who Died . . .

And I’m proud to be and American, Where at least I know I’m free. And I wont forget the men who died, Who gave that right to me. And I gladly stand up, Next to you and defend her still today. ‘Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land, God bless the USA. As I was driving home today, "God Bless The U.S.A." by Lee Greenwood was playing on the radio. I shed a few tears and sang along with all my heart. I truly am blessed to be an American, to have so many freedoms that I can take them for granted. Arlynda told the story of where she was on that day, so I thought I'd follow suit. On September 11, 2001, I was a missionary in France. It was a day like any other for my companion (Soeur Jex) and myself. We went to visit a less-active member, who was watching t.v., and I saw the towers burning. Honestly, I thought it was a movie--we were so far removed from American reality that I didn't understand what I was seeing. We had our appointment, then took the bus back to our apartment. When we got there, we had a message from our Zone Leaders, asking us to stay in our apartment and to call them ASAP (in Brussels; I guess they had had a ZL meeting that day, so we were on our own). When we talked to them, they explained what happened; President Harrison had let them watch the news. They told us to stay put--to not leave our apartments at all the next day. I had an American flag hanging on our wall, and they asked me to take it down. We were able to go back to proselyting on Thursday, but we were instructed to stay away from all Muslims (not an easy task, as France has a pretty significant Muslim population), and we were to be back home by nightfall, unless we were escorted (i.e., driven home by a member or walked home by the Elders). As the days were getting shorter, and I would complete my mission four months later, it was very difficult for me to come to grips with how much proselying time I would be missing. I really didn't understand how the real world had changed, since my world was so isolated. Often, especially in the days following "les attentats" (the attacks), when people would hear my accent, the would ask me if I was British. When they learned I was "americaine," they would tell me they were sorry. All I could say was "Merci. The following Friday, everyone in the city held a moment of silence (about 3 minutes) in respect for those who died. We were on the bus at the time, and everyone simply stopped where they were--in the middle of the road, even--and contemplated, while church bells rang. I don't think I 'got it' until I returned to the U.S. I found it strange that everyone referred to it as September 11th; I guess the date was enough to bring back the images and feelings. However, I liked that the French called it what it was--an attack. That's why we are at war. That's why police officers, fire fighters, and men and women of the armed forces put their lives on the line every day--to make sure that I am free and that my family is safe. I thank them for their sacrifices; I will never be able to fully express my gratitude.