Remembering Ireland

In my head, the events of September 11 will forever be connected to Ireland, and that is the reminder that bounces by me every year at this time. Ten days after the attacks, Jack and I were on an Aer Lingus flight to Dublin. Surprising myself, I sat back as we prepared to take off, squeezed my new husband's hand and ran through a couple rounds of the Hail Mary. Although Mimi was a ardent believer in Mary and all that she could do, it wasn't often I found myself ever taking her advice and finding comfort in her namesake. Intellectually I was fairly certain that little harm was going to come to a half full flight of ex Pats heading to the old country, but I was taking no chances, for the first time ever, I was a bit afraid to fly.

The welcome we received was well worth any doubts I had about getting across the pond. Not knowing we were Americans until we opened our mouths, my every request for tea or Guinness was met with "Oh, you're an American!" and then an outpouring of condolences and sympathies as I had never before seen. No need for me to pray, every person we encountered offered to pray for us, and our people and for those that were lost. We left a country still in a state of shock to find a place almost 4,000 miles away that shut down for a day, to mourn and remember. At a time when everything seemed so lost and unknown, I could not have felt more found.

Jack and I went to the U2 concert Saturday night and spent Sunday at the Celtic Festival in Grant Park. Perfect timing really, because on that most awful anniversary what I chose to remember is the kindness of the Irish people and how a place so far away could make me feel so at home.