On this eighth anniversary of the tragedy in New York City, I'm reminded of the hundreds of people who perished at the hands of a heartless few. Hundreds who were mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, doormen, baristas, office clerks, CEOs, and waitstaff. Firefighters, window washers, managers, and florists.
Whatever their role in life, they belonged to someone, somewhere. Family.
Today, I received a phone call from a cousin I haven't seen in 40 years. She was on her way back to the Atlanta area after the end of an Alaska cruise. She called from the airport. Her flight wasn't leaving for three hours.
"I can be there in 1/2 hour," I told her. It was more like an hour after the time I spent snatching photos off the walls to show her, and crawling in late-morning traffic. But I made it. She left the gate and met me in baggage claim.
Forty years does not erase the connection that is Family. I instantly recognized her as she neared the top of the escalator. Hugs and non-stop chatter. That's what I recall from the first connection. We made our way to a coffee shop. Then the stories and the photos joined the reunion. More connection.
In no time, 45 minutes had elapsed. It was time for her to return for her second round in the snaking security line. I joined her until I could go no further, and captured her home number and email address in my memo pad. Even more connection. And promises to stay in touch. We're older now, and wise enough to keep our word.
It is often joked that we can choose our friends, but not our family. Are we not all family, in some particular way? I say Yes. I choose you and you and you. Sight unseen. My spirit thrives on connection with kindred spirits who rejoice in the gift of life, for tomorrows are not guaranteed.
Look into the hearts of those around you, and welcome them into the home of your heart. They are family.
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