MANY and various are the emotions in my heart on this day just two days away from the anniversary of September 11. The first hints of autumn are in the wind, carrying memories of events that I never thought I would see. Faces flash through my mind: concerned television news anchors, a murdered fire department chaplain, the dusty bleeding wounded, reluctant widows, rejoicing Palestinian children, a warm-hearted girl in the city, my confused and frightened seven-year-old. I cannot help but stare at the diminished New York City skyline every time I drive to the city, hoping that maybe it's all been a dream and the Towers are still standing, their occupants still with us.

Often I vacillate between desiring peace and wanting justice. In actuality, there can be no complete peace without justice. How can one be at peace and satisfied when he has been severely wronged and no reparations have been made? How can one rest when some of his most valuable possessions have been stolen, destroyed, desecrated, murdered? Should not someone be held accountable and made to pay?

Yet, what price paid could ever sufficiently replace that which was lost on September 11, 2001? The whole earth itself with all its treasures would be a filthy, disgusting, pitiful and trite offering compared to the value of just one of those souls that unjustly perished on that day. They can never be replaced. Humanly speaking, we could never obtain satisfactory justice for the murders inflicted on that day. Even if we imposed a million condemnations upon the perpetrators of these crimes and their accomplices, making them to die a thousand deaths for their deeds, would any of us be satisfied?

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, a life for a life. Sure, that is justice. But would that ever satisfy the longings of love violated? Would that return a firefighter to his weeping widow? Would that return a bride to her lonely groom? If we take a life to pay for another life, does that satisfy the confused orphan? Or does that only make more orphans? Do not get me wrong. I believe that justice demands that the life of the murderer be ended by the hands of the law. If orphans are made it is not the fault of justice but the fault of the killer. You should have thought about your weeping orphaned son before you plunged the knife in, before you pulled the trigger, before you crashed the plane. Justice demands a life for a life. But love is not satisfied by it. If I could resurrect one of those who hijacked the planes last year, and kill him with my own hands over and over for each of those that died that day, no one would be satisfied. The fiery jealousy of love requires more, requires that which cannot be exacted nor paid. Indeed, it would set the world on fire and consume all in its path. No wonder it is written, "Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay."

MANY TIMES over the past year, I have stood at Ground Zero, blinked unbelievingly up through the hole in the sky and asked, "Why?" I have tried to comprehend the unthinkable. I have heard the fanatics refer to the "Great Satan," my country. I have seen the smugness on their faces as they hide within their caves and their violence, self-proclaimed ambassadors of Allah, praising their deluded minions falsely called martyrs. I have studied their psychological profiles. I have listened to their twisted reasoning. It can only be understood by madmen and zealots. I do not believe that they represent true Islam. Certainly, there are multitudes of peace-loving Muslims. Certainly, I am friends with some of them. I will not allow the zealots of their religion to cloud my opinion of them and trust that they will accord me the same understanding. Certainly, there have been murderous zealots in my religion also. Let us not judge each other based upon the deeds or misdeeds of those in our religions who wear the robes, the collars, the suits, the turbans, the rings, and claim to be our spiritual guides. Know my heart and its sincerity. Judge me on that basis.

FOR A TIME, the skies were silent over the United States after we were attacked. The sights and sounds of airliners flying overhead toward New York were unnoticed, part of the background noise of every day life here. Now, since the startling sound of the first plane that flew over once flights resumed, and with each plane that I see, I am made to think of that awful day. Wonder assails me and carries my mind to places I do not wish to go. I picture myself seated in a meeting at work at 8:46 AM. I see my colleagues, smell the office coffee, try to shake off the aggravation of the morning drive and focus on the work at hand. I see the plane crashing in upon us. I imagine what would become of the walls around me, the ceiling above me, the pen in my hand, the watch on my arm, the woman seated across from me. I try to imagine the terror of those who saw the plane approaching at 400 miles per hour. Did they have time to see it? Perhaps they had their backs turned. One can only hope.

I IMAGINE that each time I visit New York, there will be the thoughts of sadness, injustice and confusion. These things will never be forgotten. They may become less intense with time, just as a wound hurts less the more it heals. The scar will always remain. Scar tissue is the strongest tissue. Come, my friends. Let us continue on, united, scarred and limping if need be. The skies rain blessings more often than fire. Let us look up with expectancy and determination. Let us rebuild with courage and confidence. Let us pray with sincerity and hope.

CORRESPONDING PICTURE GALLERY:
At the World Trade Center, 2 AM