The sky is blue again this morning. Not quite as blue as that sunny September morning 18 years ago, when the skies were a hue so brilliant it felt as though anything were possible.

Until it wasn’t. And never would be again.

We all have a 9/11 morning story. “Where were you?” “I was trying to get my daughter home from school.” “Trying to get a ferry out of lower Manhattan.”

On that morning, I was sitting at home — then, as now, I worked at home, but at the time, I commuted to New York City a few days a week. I was breezily eating breakfast, leafing through the paper, thinking about a sun-kissed beach day the weekend before and tentative plans for a trip with my friend and her family.

Waiting for Regis at 9 a.m. on Channel 7, there was a news brief. A plane had struck the Word Trade Center. At first, and now it seems shockingly naive, I thought, maybe we all thought, that it had been an accident. At first, there was no indication that anyone had even been hurt. At first, it seemed as though it would be okay.

Until it wasn’t. And never would be again.

Then came the second hit. The Pentagon. United Airlines flight 93. The news kept coming, a horrific tide of devastation, striking as fast and hard as as spray of evil bullets. What was happening? Why? What unspeakable attack was next?

The phone calls kept coming in to the TV stations. One man, who was trapped with his staff, was calm at first, stating clearly what floor they were on, where they could be found. Certain, with the mindset of a man who’d clearly worked hard and followed all the rules — the rules that had him at his desk before 9 a.m. on a regular day at the office — that they would, of course, be rescued and found. Confident that the sheer dedication and hard work he’d put forth for years would mean that he’d live to see the rest of his life play out, that he’d continue to follow the rules, live to retire and share a life with his family, play with his yet unborn grandchildren. Those rules had served him well so far, brought him success, and he clearly, from the tone of his voice on the phone, had no reason to doubt that they’d once again pave the way for a happy ending to a story he’d undoubtedly tell, again and again. Following the rules had always been enough.

Until it wasn’t. And never would be again.

The tower fell. And his phone calls were silenced.

The calls intensified in agony as the day went on. “You have to find my husband,” one woman begged, tears heavy as she explained she was pregnant; her husband worked for Cantor Fitzgerald. “I need him to come home.”

As the gray blanket of grief descended on the world, blacking out the shining blue of that traitorous sky, the tentacles of horror began to creep far from Ground Zero. Even in the sleepy hamlet of Remsenburg, the nightmare became real for the men and women who were our friends, for the innocent, unsuspecting children.

“They can’t find my husband.”

Until that day, so many of us thought we’d lived lives that were graced by pure decency and a sense of fairness. Work hard, treat others as you’d like to be treated, help the needy. Raise the kids right, go to church and give back in the community. Yes, we’d all known personal sorrows and painful losses. But there was a belief that in America, the land of the free, home of the brave, that an act of evil so dark that it would shape everything that came after, would never unfold so close to our homes and hearts. The American dream had always been enough, more than enough.

Until it wasn’t. And maybe, never would be again.

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We could have let horror win that day. We could have become a nation of bitter, disillusioned people, fueled by hate.

But every day since, over 18 impossibly long years that also feel like just a single heartbeat, there are stories of courage, of hope and decency — just yesterday, I wrote about the son of a brave firefighter who left his pregnant wife, expecting their fourth baby, who headed in to work at his Brooklyn firehouse, trading shifts with a friend. He never came home. Never saw his baby boy. But his son, who was just a fourth grader when 9/11 stole his father, is proof that evil did not win that dark day. Instead of living a life of fury, that strong young man today is studying law, hoping to devote his life to helping others.

(Lisa Finn)

His story is one of countless others. Of firehouses across the country where men and women still serve without a second thought, who would run today just as quickly into a burning building against impossible odds, trying to save those souls inside. Every day, there are stories of good, of the caring hearts and giving spirits that make this country what it always was, and always will be. There are stories of men and women whose values continue to shape the future — and for that, we are forever grateful.

The relentless evil on 9/11 was vast and dark; it could have been enough to alter everything America and its men and women have long stood for and believed. It was sinister enough, and vile enough, to have wiped out our dreams and hopes for the future.

Until it wasn’t. And never will be again.