{reflecting on NYC} now.

My husband and I love New York City.

For me, the love for the bustling city started at the end of eigth grade when I was notified that I was receiving a superlative in the yearbook (for “shortest”, if you must know…ahem…). I was asked to write my future plans down on paper for the blurb that would go next to my picture.  I wrote that I wanted to live in New York City and be a stockbroker. The action, the movement, and the noise all created a beautifully wrapped package for me. I wanted to be there. And live that. That is, until I realized that you had to be somewhat good at math to be a stockbroker. I knew at that moment that the whole stockbroker thing wasn't going to be my gig. 

Fast forward many years. It’s Christmas 2000. My husband hands me a card he’s designed on the computer. The card explains that in just two days, he and I would be traveling to New York. He had planned it all. It would be my first time in the city I had always wanted to be a part of. Needless to say, I cried. Bless my hubby’s heart.

I remember the first steps I took in the city. I remember the shoes I was wearing. As we stepped up and out of the terminal and onto the gray sidewalks, I looked down at my feet. My first steps in this city I knew I would love. It was holy ground, and I knew it.

Fast forward a few months, and NYC has totally woven itself into the fabric of who we are. Living in Howard County, Maryland we were just four hours away. It was our anniversary, and my husband had purchased tickets of us to see a matinee performance of The Phantom of the Opera at the Majestic Theater. It was August 22, 2001. As we stepped out into the mid-afternoon sun, I looked down at the shoes I was wearing, deemed them fit, and suggested that we walk to SoHo. From the Theater District. Yes. I wanted to go to the Kate Spade boutique on Broome Street, and it was a brilliant afternoon. My husband agreed, and we walked. Down Broadway. Along crowded sidewalks. Among the happening. It was amazing. As we made our way downtown toward Soho during those two and a half hours, I noticed that the towers of the World Trade Center stood tall in the direction that we needed to travel. Those two gray, stoic buildings became a marker for us. A compass. They were right there. There. Always.

And then the morning of September 11th happened. The towers we had used along our course downtown just weeks prior were gone. In billows of dust and smoke and ash, they lay in heaps. Broken and bent. We were broken and bent, too, watching the TV that day. The city we loved so much was mourning. Like a stomachache rising, we sat there stunned. 

Again, we fast forward. It’s mid-October 2001. My husband had purchased tickets for us to see The Producers on Broadway months prior. It was time to go. Of course, those buildings weren’t there as we approached the city. I knew they wouldn’t be. But, oh. We had heard that New York Police Department had reduced the perimeter around the World Trade Center the night before. We would get to be closer to Ground Zero than the people who had visited the day before. We felt blessed. And so we went…as close as we could…to holy ground. 

We stood there, among the others, listening to the policeman guarding the perimeter. He was graciously answering questions from the crowd. He was receiving thanks from those who had come. Here. To this place. Steps closer than others had been. As we stood there, I looked at the shop windowsill beside me. A thick gray dust coated the ledge. It was the dust that came in great plumes when the buildings fell. As people ran away from the falling towers that day, they covered their mouths so they wouldn’t inhale this dust. I stood there and realized what I was looking at. It was finely ground rubble. Powder. The aftermath of terror. The great buildings we had kept our eyes on in August were reduced to shards and pieces and this dust. I ran my finger along the windowsill. Perhaps I needed to connect, and this dust, this mortal soil, was a conduit. It was holy ground.   

And here I sit in a coffee shop twelve years later with tears in my eyes. How thankful I am that God gave me August 22, 2001 and that day in October and every other day I've spent with my feet on New York City's pavement. How thankful I am for the resilient human spirit. The boundless hope and forward movement that God has placed in our souls.  

And so the sod that you and I trod each day as we do the normal, the routine, the daily…it is holy ground. Let’s stop today, take off our shoes, and thank God for it. 

Blessings,
Deni