Sitting shoulder to shoulder in a front-row pew, a family listened raptly to the 24 mournful notes of taps. They’re brothers and sisters gathered inside Antioch Baptist Church where they spent every Sunday morning of their childhood.
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One brother, Eddie Stephens, wasn’t looking forward to this day. He’ll tell you he dreads every 11th day of September. It’s the day terrorists robbed him of his sister and 183 others at the Pentagon.
“I hate it because it hurts so bad. It hurts all of us really bad,” he said after the prayer service to remember the terrorist attacks and honor the memory of his sister, Edna Lee Stephens. Former Gov. Nathan Deal, who lived in Gainesville for decades, spoke during the service.
Edna Stephens was a 53-year-old budget analyst with an office in the Pentagon. She was living with another brother at the time, who worked as a mechanic near the Pentagon.
He was near enough to feel the blast on that September morning. Back in Gainesville, sister Brenda Stephens Pyant watched in disbelief as scenes of Edna Stephens’ workplace – now a hellscape of smoke, flames, rubble – came across her TV screen.
She feared nothing but the worst.
“They can’t find Edna,” she said.
The brother who lived with Edna Stephens knew exactly where she worked: the west side of the Pentagon, along the outer wall. It’s exactly where the terrorist-guided 747 ripped into the building.
“And he was really scared out of his wits,” she said of her brother. “And he was crying and worrying.”
By the evening, the family had no doubt. Edna Stephens was gone. Over the next several days, recovery workers would find her two rings, her T-shirt, her jeans – and eventually her remains, identified through DNA samples.
Edna Stephens had spent more than three decades working in the federal government and planned to retire the next year. With an affinity for cooking, she dreamed of opening her own restaurant.
Her brother Eddie may dread every anniversary of his sister’s death because the heartsickness sets in and the wounds feel raw again. But at the same time, the day has become something sacred. He will not work on any Sept. 11, instead devoting the day to prayer, reflection and family.
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“I told everyone that I was, come September 11th, that’s my day,” he said. “I will not work that day.”
Twenty-five years later, he joined his brothers and sisters within the brick walls and stained-glass windows of Antioch Baptist Church.
A young man stood before the pews and performed that time-honored bugle call. Twenty-four mournful notes. And on the front-row pew, a family sat silently, prayerfully, never to forget.
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