Nine years

St. Paul's Chapel

It stood. Not a window broken. Not a stone dislodged.
It stood when nothing else did.
It stood when terrorists brought September down.
It stood among myths. It stood among ruins.

To stand was its purpose, long lines prove that.
It stands, and around it now, a shrine of letters,
poems, acrostics, litter of the heart.
It is the standing people want:
To grieve, serve and tend
celebrate the lasting stone of St. Paul's Chapel.

And deep into its thick breath, the largest banner
fittingly from Oklahoma climbs heavenward
with hands as stars, hands as stripes, hands as a flag
and a rescuer reaches for a stuffed toy
to collect a touch;
and George Washington's pew doesn't go unused.

Charity fills a hole or two.

It stood in place of other sorts.
It stood when nothing else could.
The great had fallen, as the brute hardware came down.
It stood.

- A poem by J. Chester Johnson

In March, I went to New York City with my mom and my grandma. After looking at Ground Zero from the upper floors of the Hilton across the street and having my mind blown by how enormous the site actually is, we stopped by the church next door, St. Paul's Chapel.

This little church is Manhattan's oldest public building, opened in 1766, a place where George Washington came to worship and where 9/11 firefighters, volunteers and victims sought refuge, care and healing because it was still standing after the World Trade Center towers collapsed in explosion, fire and terror just right across the street. The churchyard and church were full of debris and dust, but no windows were broken, no stones displaced; it was untouched.

This small inconspicuous chapel is full of memorials to those who died that day - art, photography, writing and love. It's where I found the poem above, printed on a card for visitors, paying a beautiful tribute to September 11, 2001.