Being Benedictine

Where were you when the world stopped turnin’
That September day?­
Teachin’ a class full of innocent children
Or drivin’ on some cold interstate?

We remember where we were, who we were with, and how we felt. We remember “when the world stopped turning” because, for most of us, it felt as if it did. Time stood still.

Each of us has a unique story that longs to be shared, to be heard. For me, the remembering is about the connectedness I felt with my students that September morn. We felt something together, a soul experience that goes beyond words. We felt fear, shock, sadness, even despair, but especially a collective yearning for faith, hope, and love.

As a high school teacher, I would often forget that my students were really children, but there was never a day I felt that more than September 11, 2001. Together, instead of working on Business Management curriculum, we witnessed the second hijacked airplane fly into the World Trade Center. We were stunned as we watched both buildings crumble to the ground shortly thereafter. 

The day the world stopped turning, I was profoundly aware that I was the adult in the room, responsible for the children in my classroom. I felt an obligation to hold it together, to remain calm, to comfort, to help them process difficult feelings and to find a reflective, intelligent way to answer their questions with as much of a knowing “I don’t know” that I could muster.

We know how the morning ended, but when my Business Management students asked to turn on the news, we had only heard that an airplane had flown into one of the World Trade Center towers. We had no idea that we weren’t just watching a developing news story; we were watching a tragedy unfold, a real-life horror movie. When that 110-story building collapsed, time stood still. 

That split second is one of the most memorable of my 27-year teaching career. It remains with me as a moment of Divine accompaniment and connectedness with my students. Scanning their faces, my eyes connected with Grant’s, a student sitting in the front row. I saw the disbelief in his eyes, the pain on his face, and watched him drop his head onto the desk. How long his head stayed cradled in his own hands, I don’t know, but it is a moment that has never left me. It was a moment of mutual grief for humanity, a oneness. We both felt it.

When we resumed classes as best we could, we went through the motions of school, adults trying to be adults—attempting to stay calm, our minds preoccupied with thoughts of our own children, our parents, our lives, our country, our future. As the details of the hijacking unfolded, I remember thinking I could never take students on a trip again. As the sponsor of a student organization, traveling with students to DECA conferences was an important part of my duties, and it was heartbreaking to hear a teacher with a class of young children had been on one of the planes. 

But as the days turned into weeks and, then, months, the trauma of that day became more distant. We found ways to manage our fears and plan for potential tragedies that helped us all feel better. And despite my knee-jerk reaction resolving not to travel with students again, that following spring I took eight students to the DECA National Conference in Salt Lake City. Traveling was different from that point on, but I realized over the months that even if there were some fearful and challenging moments, I still wanted to have this special relationship with my students. Fear passes, faith, hope, and love win, and the world starts turning again. We heal.

Eight years later, 2009–

An ordinary school morning, students in my Marketing class were researching how economic conditions and world events, such as the tragedy of 9/11, impact business decisions. We told stories about where we were that day, and I shared the powerful moment of making eye contact with Grant. We talked about the song, “Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning” and how we will never forget the people we were with that day. After class, I learned that I had a visitor waiting for me in our main office, unusual for a school day. 

When I arrived in our office, Grant, from the front row of my 2001 Business Management class, was standing there. Stunned, I said, “You are not going to believe this, but I was just talking about you! I was telling the story of how our eyes met when the towers came down.”

His response: “You are not going to believe this. I was on my way to see a client when the song, “Where Were You When The World Stopped Turning” came on the radio. I knew I needed to see you, so I turned around and drove to school.”