Eighteen Years Ago

Eighteen years ago. I think everyone remembers what they were doing when they found out. On the West Coast, we woke up to the news. It was a Tuesday. I told our sons, 13 and 9, as they got ready for school. Their day was filled with stories. Classmates. Teachers. Someone's son-in-law worked in one of the towers. Someone's father might've been on one of the planes. At Hebrew school in the afternoon, the parents and their children gathered in the sanctuary. The rabbi led us in prayer. All around me, I heard the tears of temple members waiting to hear back from loved ones. Someone's niece... friend... cousin... co-worker.

When it comes to Hebrew, I'm not a maven, far from it, but there are a few things I know, and one of them is this: Chai is the Hebrew word and symbol for life. The letters for chai... chet and yud... add up to 18, a number that represents all good things in life. L'chaim. To life.

But today, on the 18th anniversary of 9/11, the number takes on different meaning. Today, 18 means life and all its tragedies. It means sacrifice and heroism and the courage to begin again.