When nearing the end of my recent visit to New York, my grandson from Ohio flew to La Guardia to spend a few days and accompany me on the drive home. It was his first independent flight and he loved it! 

One of the things he particularly wanted to do was visit "Lady Liberty" and Ellis Island. With very detailed instructions and directions, he and I managed to get from Brooklyn to Battery Park where the boat boarded. Fortunately we decided to leave "at the crack of dawn" almost. The boats were full but not the huge crush I've experienced before. The trip over was uneventful except for my motion sickness. As soon as we reached land, it dissipated.

The Statue is wonderful and amazing! But Ellis Island inspires awe. Imagining the millions of immigrants who braved the long, arduous trip in the bowels of a ship, filthy conditions, perhaps people dying around you. The smells, the fear and anxiety mixed with excitement and trepidation at the thought of a new land and loss of the old. And the sea-sickness. Particularly heinous to one who has experienced this illness on every kind of transportation and recreational apparatus!

Coming to a new world. Maybe with a plan-indentured servant, family or friends awaiting your arrival, a profession or occupation to insure your survival in this strange land.You arrive-the huge figure of the lady in the distance, landing on Ellis Island. Hardly able to walk on your sea legs. So many "coming to America."

You're with child and happy and excited to welcome this first generation American into your family. As you cling to your husband to avoid separation, you are abruptly pulled through a gate. Your man starts to follow and is denied entrance. Panic, sheer terror. You plead with guards, cry and reach out for him. Finally, a harried man's face softens and says,"you must stay at the hospital until the child arrives." You gaze blankly at him-you don't speak English.

When I learned that pregnant women had to stay on the island until they gave birth, I couldn't stop thinking about it. On one site, they spoke of around 350 babies being born at the hospital. I was surprised there weren't more.

When I think of the settled lives most of us live, I can't even imagine the determination and bravery so many millions have demonstrated.

We didn't have time to see everything-I may have to do it again someday.

How could thirteen years have passed since 9/11? We all remember where we were, what we were doing, how we found out. We were unable to stop watching. We saw the second plane hitting the tower. We knew then that it couldn't have been an accident.

Most of us didn't know any of the victims, had never been to New York or D.C. or the field in Pennsylvania. But we cried and sobbed and mourned and grieved. They were people; men, women, children, unborn babies. Our people from our towns, our cities, our land, our world.

All humanity joined in sorrow. Unable to grasp the depth of hatred, the mindset of those whose joy and salvation is murder. Who serve a god rewarding the slaughter of 'innocents' and self.

I was able to visit the 9/11 memorial site several times during my N.Y. city visit. Even with the crowds present, it feels peaceful and solemn. Voices hushed, the soothing sounds and sight of rushing water. The beauty and simplicity of the names cut into the bronze plates. Eleven with the added phrase; "and her unborn child".

So much thought and care has gone into arranging the 2,983 names. Originally, they were to be randomly placed. Somehow developing the concept of "meaningful adjacencies", they paired co-workers, companies, organization affiliates, friends, relatives and recovery proximity. Over 1200 family requests were received and addressed.

As we stood by the south tower site, we noticed kids touching the water, feeling it's coolness. Our first thought-disapproval. Then my daughter suggested putting our hands in so "our skin cells will be part of the ever-flowing water and it will be part of us." With fingers immersed; we experienced immediate tears and emotional connection.  Nothing magical or mystical, just honoring and mourning the dead, and empathizing with families and friends who ever struggle with their loss.

In great or small ways we all do.