We are a nation built on monuments and memorials. We look to our shrines to hold us steady in a world where foundations seem to be ever changing.

Etched in marble are the names of those who sacrificed their lives for the sake of our freedom. And we are called to remember. Carved in stone are the faces of the men and women who built our country, and those who redefined it. And we are called to remember.

For the past decade, our monuments have been created by absence rather than presence. By buildings no longer standing, by lives no longer lived among us, by security no longer felt, by peace no longer a reality. And we are called to remember.

As each year has passed, and the names have been read and the images replayed we have been called to remember. Now, a decade after that Tuesday morning, we are again called to remember, to remember where we were, and who we were, on that day.

But the remembering is not difficult. We do not need marble and granite to bring us back to that day. The image of black smoke against an electric blue sky is burned into our minds. The collapse of the cathedrals of our empire is part of our collective memory. Those of us who ran from office buildings seeking safety and smelled death while standing near the ruins of that day do not need memorials to remind us. No, the remembering is not difficult. It is the living with the memory which has proved unfathomable.

Extracting meaning from national tragedy has long been the work of poets. Years later, words put on paper provide clarity and scope to the wounds carved into a national psyche. That luxury hasn't been ours this past decade. We were forced to live while the wound was fresh. We were compelled to move on before the smoke cleared, before the rubble was removed, before the memorials were constructed.

We moved from news coverage of the wreckage of the towers, to the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, to the capture and trail of Saddam Hussein, to the death of Osama bin Laden. We've watched our soldiers come home battered and bruised and left to fight demons not of their own making.

Other tragedies have found their way to our shore in the past decade. Hurricanes have flooded our cities. Tornados have ravaged our towns. Fires have blackened our prairies. The unfolding record of the decade following Sept. 11, 2001, has changed so quickly, it has been hard to keep up.

As such, it is difficult to pinpoint the impact of that single day not only on our national story, but on our personal narrative. Who we have become is hard to measure.

In the days and weeks after the attacks, we saw a resurgence of what was called “American unity.” Flags were flown from every home, and fixed to every vehicle. We recited “The Pledge of Allegiance,” we sang the national anthem. We felt American. But patriotism, while honorable, is transient and hard to quantify. As feelings, and flags, fade and time passes it is more difficult to see the internal repercussions of national events.

And yet, that day changed everything. Our perspective of the world around us has broadened. Because we saw the pain and fear in the faces of our fellow citizens on that fall day, our hearts break more easily for those who experience suffering in faraway lands. Geopolitical events matter more to us because we saw them visit our neighbors with horrifying consequences. Generations of Americans understand war, because we've seen it. It has been our brothers and sisters and classmates and friends returning home in flag draped boxes. The war dead are not names on monuments, they are pictures in our yearbooks.

The significance of that day lies in the fact that we saw the worst and the best of humanity in the span of a few hours. The entire spectrum of the human experience was laid out before us. From the hijackers willing to lose their lives to kill thousands, to the men and women on United Flight 93 willing to lose their lives to save even one, we saw humanity for what it was, the good and the bad.

There are not many moments in history that provide such clarity. Those that do almost always involve body counts.

If there is any lesson to be learned from the events of Sept. 11, 2001, perhaps it is this: tragedy touches us all and becomes part of the fabric of our history. Monuments stand as testament to the fact we are changed by what we live through and they offer a touchstone for future generations.

Memorials have been constructed to remember that September day. In New York, at the Pentagon, and in a field in Pennsylvania, stand markers to remind us, to call us to remember the lives lost and the lives changed. But markers of marble and granite will never be the greatest memorials to that day. Those memorials exist in our own lives and memories and in the scars that remain, visible and hidden.

We are the monuments to Sept. 11, 2001. A decade later, we are the lasting impact of the day the towers fell. Our individual actions in the next decade will continue to tell the story of what pattern we have woven with the threads of tragedy we've been given.

In the decades to come, future generations will have only monuments and markers to remind them of that day. Until then, let us tell the story with grace and dignity and let our lives bear witness to the impact made by the day that changed us.

Let us remember, and let us live.



Journal staff writer Kimberly Benedict was living in Washington, D.C., on Sept. 11, 2001.