I had purchased the tickets at least two months earlier.  It was my wife’s birthday, and we would celebrate by attending a concert by our local symphony orchestra.  As a former trumpet player of some talent, I was especially excited because Doc Severinsen was the featured guest soloist.  I had seen Severinsen several times before, and knew any appearance by him would be a special event, indeed.

It was a full house.  No surprise there.  In many ways, the evening followed the usual routine for a classical concert.  Many, including my wife and me, had treated themselves to a nice dinner before the concert.  When we arrived at the theater, we noticed the eclectically attired crowd.  Some dressed in immaculate formal wear, others in jeans and casual clothing, and most somewhere in between.  What was different, however, was the strange hush that permeated the foyer as the audience passed through the ticket turnstile.  No happy greetings as long-time friends and acquaintances met one another prior to the concert.  No jokes, few broad smiles.  The general demeanor, in fact, was more somber than any funeral I had ever attended.

Flashing lights signaled the concert would soon begin.  In orderly fashion, everyone promptly took their seats.  The faux Moorish architecture of the auditorium was stunningly beautiful, but did anyone notice?  The orchestra was already on the stage, the violins, violas, cellos, and basses tuning their strings, the brass and woodwinds warming up by playing scales in various keys.  The discordant result almost matched the peculiar, dour mood of the crowd. 

In a few minutes, the orchestra suddenly quieted, and the conductor crossed the stage with polite applause.  He shook hands with the concert master, stepped onto the podium, and raised his baton.  I looked at my program to see what the first number would be.  I was surprised when the opening melody differed from that announced by the program.  The change was good.  It was a rousing arrangement of a tune we all knew.  The audience spontaneously joined the orchestra by singing along, loudly and proud.  I joined, too.  With tears and a quavering voice, I sang words which had never moved me like they did just then:

God Bless America,
Land that I love.
Stand beside her, and guide her
Thru the night with a light from above.
From the mountains, to the prairies,
To the oceans, white with foam
God bless America, My home sweet home,                                                    God bless America, My home sweet home.

It was my wife’s birthday, September 12, the day after the worst terrorist attack in history.