Bubble.

10 years ago I was an admittedly awkward but mostly carefree 7th grader.

My grades weren't fantastic, they weren't the worst.

I had a solid group of lunch friends, but few "spend-the-night" friends. I told my parents this didn't bother me because I enjoyed whatever time I got to spend with those friends and I didn't mind the occasional loneliness.

My biggest concern going into September 2001 was having just learned that my best friend-- the last of the "spend-the-night" ones-- was moving to Texas.

She and I had been in a season-- the typical one that elementary best friends go through as each meanders into adolescence-- where we kind of just needed a little space from each other. There was no ill will involved in this needed amount of distance, only a gradual realization that neither of us knew how to avoid or handle-- we were completely different. Even as we took breaks from seeing each other or used greater care with the depth of information shared, we knew we both cared deeply about each other and would emerge good, if not as similar as we thought, friends.

So on September 11, 2001, I was feeling guilty. Guilty that I'd been feeling the need for some time away from Allie and the insecurities she brought out in me and guilty that my conviction was being realized in such a huge, permanent way.

You know, they say be careful what you wish for.

I went from one moment just needing a little time, to the next moment trying to correct God-- "no not that much! I love her, she's my best friend!" I felt guilty because I at least got to keep my lunch friends and she was distraught over having to start completely over.

Her dad as the pastor of our nest egg of a church was all I'd really ever known. Her mom was my mom's best friend, and so my mom grieved. I'd grown increasingly close to her little sister, and was losing 2 friends, really.

On the morning of September 11th, I remember turning on the t.v. for the local news, per my usual morning routine, at 6:45 and getting lost in thoughts regarding my own personal bursted bubble. That was the last hour that burden would be defined as losing my 12 year old best friend to Texas.

The shrill hollers of Allie's mom running through our front door at about 8 a.m. were my first indication that I didn't know how heavy burden could be, nor did I know the true weight of grief.

Matt Lauer stood amongst some ancient ruins in some far off place when I heard someone come on and say that a plane hit the World Trade Center. In my naivety, believing that whatever was being said pertained to what I was seeing on the screen, my first thought was "well this place has been destroyed for years, anyway."

That's when Mrs. Alta Lynn came in screaming for everyone to gather around the t.v. I'd gone to complete the final steps of my morning routine once I gave up trying to figure out why I heard distressed broadcasts while Matt Lauer stood in a peaceful field somewhere. By the time I responded to Mrs. Alta Lynn's calls, they'd gotten live footage of the towers. I said out loud "Oh... that's the World Trade Center. What does it do?" The question lingered, void of answer.

We watched the second plane hit the south tower and the realization of terrorism strike Americans.

Suddenly, so much more was at stake than my own bubble.

I mourned as deeply as possible when you're thousands of miles away, sitting behind a screen and in the 7th grade. I was at a pretty impressionable age, and my worldview absolutely changed that day

I didn't have a new personal burden or profound grief beyond that with which I struggled while B.J., Robyn and Tom read off the school lunch menus before 7 a.m. on September 11. But I did realize how shallow that grief was in the scheme of things.

I certainly could not comprehend the depth of sadness, the devastating effect of trauma, the courage involved in placing one's self in harms way for others. But that day, I found out how much of that stuff-- sadness, devastation, trauma, courage-- is out there, how deep and heavy it can be.

10 years later and it still amazes me that people are willing to make those things a part of their daily lives. That people make livings out of encountering sorrow and bad guys and danger, in order that 12 year olds might have normal lives, with normal bubbles to be popped in normal ways.

So that 22 year olds and 42 year olds and 82 year olds can go to church and watch baseball and keep each other company at lunch and on couches, these people acquaint themselves with danger and pain.

They step outside of their own safety bubbles so we can keep ours.

That dedication, that service, that selflessness, that bravery--the entire response to 9-11 and the continued service of thousands of first responders-- makes me appreciate this bubble of life I've got and challenges me to make good use of it.

It's been bought with a price, after all.

(p.s.-- Allie, if you're reading, I love you.)

and because nothing says "I love you" like a Celine Dion video...