In an instant, I thought about the firefighters who lost their lives in the 9/11 attacks. Those men and women who sacrificed themselves for the lives of others. They believed in those people they saved. They believed in the value of each life as the men and women of the trade towers were extracted from the building. They believed that each of those they saved had a purpose and would each make incalculable contributions to our nation. They believed this before the first plane ever took off from that airport. They believed in it the day they took their oath.
In my mind, examples of heroism began to deluge my mind, an irreversible cataclysm of faith. I realized that people do what they do everyday because they have faith in other people. I thought about Christa, my little seven-year-old hero, who with her precocious wisdom, brought me back to reality and, probably, ultimately saved my life. I thought about how much she believed in God's word and how she feared not anything this world could offer or take away. I thought about how, at seven years old, she knew that God had given her life and that in death, He would give her life anew. And she believed it so intently, that she was willing to die for it.
I thought about Jason, the Air Force medic who deployed with the Army six times to Iraq. I thought about how he never once complained when his tours were extended. How he worked through exhaustion, how he sacrificed his family to ensure that others kept their loved ones. I thought about his belief in that flag of 13 stripes and 50 stars, in that uniform and all that it represented, and in this nation, replete with imperfections yet still serving as a beacon of hope for millions around the world. I thought about the children not even born yet that he fought to protect. I thought about the families whose loved ones were kept alive by his heroism. I thought of the way he died in combat, with pride, honor and dignity. He died fighting for more than a victory, he died for what he believed in.
And now, I ask myself again what it is that I am willing to die for. I ask because knowing why I do what I do helps to keep me focused on the task. It helps me to understand that each day may not be easy, that no days may be easy, but that each day is worth it because whether with a hose, my words and prayers, or my m-16, I am a warrior. I am fighting for what I believe in. So today, with absolute certitude, I understand what I life for. I live for my family: my mother, my siblings, my nieces and nephews. I live for my neighborhoods: my students who fight everyday to survive the world. I live for my nation, replete with foibles at every level, but the only place I'd ever want to claim as my own. I live for my love of the human race. But most importantly. I live for God. Jesus died on the cross because He believed in me. What can I do to be worthy of that honor? I can never live to that standard.
As I was writing this, I thought of one more person: Wiline. Every email she has ever sent me summed up my entire understanding; everything I believe falls under the umbrella of the words written in the signature block of her messages to me:
For Christ I live, and for Christ I will die.
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