Twenty-Five Years Later: The Last Words of 9/11

By: Kevin Carson

Twenty-five years ago today, September 11, 2001, began as an ordinary Tuesday morning. People got up and went to work. They made breakfast. Parents got children ready for school. People boarded airplanes headed across the country. Husbands and wives said goodbye, probably with some idea of what they would do together later that day.

Then everything changed. For nearly 3,000 people, there would be no later that day.

Most of us who were old enough to remember September 11 can still remember where we were when we heard the news. I went to teach an early-morning seminary course and was flagged down in the administration office almost immediately after the first plane hit. We remember watching the television (for me it was Good Morning America with Charlie Gibson and Diane Sawyer). We remember the confusion surrounding the first plane. Then came the second plane. Flashes from New York to Washington. Smoke. People running in suits and dresses caring brief cases and purses down the driveway of the White House. I called my wife at home with our almost one-year-old to alert her.  For the first time in my life, I did not feel safe in America’s heartland.

This was no accident.

We watched the towers burn and eventually fall on live television. We watched people running through the streets covered in ash. We heard about the Pentagon. Then another plane was missing. Eventually, we learned that United Flight 93 had crashed into a field in Pennsylvania.

It hardly seems possible that twenty-five years have passed.

What Do You Say When You Know You May Be Dying?

I read a X post by @peggynoonannyc and various other articles of hers from the Wall Street Journal which led me down a path of the voices of 9/11. One of the most moving parts of the historical record from September 11 that I found is the telephone calls, especially as recorded by the National Park Service.

Passengers and flight attendants called husbands, wives, parents, and others. Some reached the person they loved. Others reached an answering machine. Some calls were recorded. Others are known to us through the testimony of those who received them and through FBI interviews conducted shortly afterward.

I have been reading through these calls again this week. They are hard to read. Yet, there is something about them that is worth remembering.

What do you say when you realize that you may have only minutes left?

Over and over again, they said essentially the same thing.

I love you.

Brian Sweeney was aboard United Airlines Flight 175, which would strike the South Tower. He tried to call his wife, Julie. She did not answer, so he left a message. He explained that the plane had been hijacked and that things did not look good.

He wanted her to know how much he loved her. He sent his love to his family as well.

“Tell My Children That I Love Them”

CeeCee Lyles was a flight attendant aboard United Flight 93. At 9:47 that morning, she called home. She reached the answering machine.

She told her husband that the plane had been hijacked. She was trying to remain calm. She had heard about the planes hitting the World Trade Center.

But the heart of her message was not about the hijackers or other details.

“I want to tell you I love you.”

Then she asked him to tell their children that she loved them very much. She hoped she would see his face again.

She told him she loved him once more.

“Goodbye.”

Eleven minutes later, she managed to reach her husband on her cell phone. Again, she told him the plane was being hijacked and that people were forcing their way into the cockpit. And again, the message:

“I love you. Tell the kids that I love them.”

Those were the important words.

“I Have to Go. I Love You.”

Honor Elizabeth Wainio was also aboard Flight 93. She called her stepmother. They talked for more than four minutes.

At one point, Honor was thinking about what her death would mean for those who loved her. She told her stepmother:

“This is going to be harder on you, and I want you to be okay.”

Again, notice where her mind went. Not herself. Her family.

Then the passengers began preparing to act.

“They’re getting ready to break into the cockpit. I have to go. I love you. Good-bye.”

Those were her final words to her stepmother.

Mostly, I Just Wanted to Say I Love You

Another message from Flight 93 is particularly moving to me. In the FBI and trial records, the message begins this way:

“Mostly, I just wanted to say I love you . . .”

The caller sent love to Mom and Dad. Then came the ordinary details of life. The caller explained where personal belongings were kept and gave the combination to a safe.

Imagine that moment. A hijacked airplane. The World Trade Center has already been hit. You do not know whether you will ever see home again. And suddenly the location of your things matters because somebody you love is going to have to deal with them.

Then, once again:

“I love you.”

That is what mattered.

When There Is No Time Left, What Matters?

Reading these calls made me stop and think. What do you not hear in them?

Not one person called home to settle an argument. No one cared who forgot to take out the trash. Nobody complained about an irritating habit. No one else called to talk about how much money was in the bank, what somebody had posted online, who had offended them, or what they hoped to buy next. All those things that can seem so big on an ordinary Tuesday suddenly became very small.

What mattered? People. Relationships. Love.

I love you.

Tell the children I love them.

Tell Mom and Dad I love them.

I want you to be okay.

Goodbye.

Death has a way of clarifying life.

Others Used Their Last Minutes to Serve

Not all of the calls were goodbyes.

Betty Ong was a flight attendant aboard American Airlines Flight 11, the first plane to strike the World Trade Center. She called American Airlines. Her words were calm and direct. She identified herself and her flight. She explained that the cockpit was not answering. Someone had been stabbed. Something was terribly wrong. She stayed on the phone and kept giving information. Until the crash.

Amy Sweeney, another flight attendant on Flight 11, did the same.

Think about that as well. In the middle of unimaginable circumstances, these flight attendants were still serving other people. They were doing what they could with the opportunity they had. They did not know how the morning would end. They simply knew there was something they could do. So they did it.

And Then There Was Flight 93

The phone calls aboard Flight 93 accomplished something else. Through their conversations with people on the ground, passengers began learning what had happened in New York. They realized that airplanes had been deliberately flown into the World Trade Center.

That changed everything. This was not a normal hijacking where they could simply sit quietly and hope negotiations would eventually bring them home.

Todd Beamer tried to call his wife, Lisa. He could not reach her. He asked an Airfone operator whether she could connect him or at least get a message to his wife. Tell her that he loved her.

There it is again. “I love you.”

But Beamer and the others also knew they needed to act.

The operator who remained on the line with Beamer reported hearing prayers, conversation, and discussion about overpowering the hijackers. They gathered hot water to use. They were going to do something.

Then the passengers went forward. We know the result. Flight 93 crashed into a field near Shanksville, Pennsylvania. Everyone aboard died. But the hijackers never reached their intended target.

Ordinary people, placed in an extraordinary situation, chose to act for the sake of others.

Twenty-Five Years Later

Jesus’ half-brother, James, writes:

“For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away” (James 4:14).

A vapor. Here for a little time. Then gone.

Every person who boarded those four airplanes that morning had plans. So did every person who walked into the World Trade Center or the Pentagon. There were lunches planned, meetings scheduled, things to finish at work, people to see that evening, and probably a long list of things to do the next day.

But, Wednesday never came for them. Tomorrow never came.

It will for most of us. But one day it will not. I’m not intending to be morbid here, but to help us live wisely (cf., Ecclesiastes 7:1-5).

Here are some of the questions on my mind as this anniversary day begins:

• Who needs to hear you say, “I love you”?
• Is there some small offense you are allowing to become too large?
• Are you spending emotional energy on something that, if you knew you had twenty minutes left, would suddenly mean almost nothing?
• Is there someone you need to forgive?
• Someone you need to call?
• Someone sitting in the same room with you whom you have been taking for granted?

Why do we wait for life to be so clear before we act? Do not wait until the last telephone call to say what needs to be said.

Most Important of All

There is something even more important than our relationships with each other.

Are you ready to meet God?

September 11 reminds us of something we already know but easily forget. We are not promised tomorrow. Jesus said:

“I am the resurrection and the life. He who believes in Me, though he may die, he shall live.” (John 11:25)

Our greatest hope is not that we can somehow avoid death. We cannot. Our hope is Jesus Christ, who conquered death.

Twenty-Five years later, we remember September 11.

We remember those who died. We remember firefighters and police officers who went up the stairs while everyone else was coming down. We remember flight attendants who continued serving. We remember passengers who fought back. We remember husbands and wives, moms and dads, sons and daughters, friends and coworkers who never came home.

And with great technology and websites, we remember those telephone calls. Perhaps that is one of the gifts those voices from twenty-five years ago still give us today. They remind us what matters.

Love God supremely.

Love people sincerely.

Tell them.

And do not take an ordinary Tuesday (or Friday in this case) for granted.

Originally published on KevinCarson.com