FORT SILL, Okla. (April 21, 2016) -- As I'm writing this column crowds of people are gathering at the First Church in Oklahoma City in honor of the 21st anniversary of the bombing of the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building. The ceremony will include reading the 168 names of those who were killed in the bombing. I'm watching the service online from my office.

I was in fifth grade at the time of the bombing and have no memories of my own of the event. Having grown up in Texas, I knew about it, but can't remember when I learned about it. I've just always known.

I'd decided when I arrived at Fort Sill last year I would make the trip to the memorial on the week of the anniversary, and so I did, arriving the day before the 21st anniversary.

Some of you may remember a column I wrote last year about my experience in a mass shooting in high school. It was hard for me to write then, choosing just the right words, and I knew writing about my experience at the Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum was going to be just as difficult.

The drive to the museum was quiet. I wasn't sure if I'd make it back in time to pick up my 2-year-old son from day care so I brought him with me, certain he would be too young to understand what he was seeing (one day he'll know about the horrors of this world, but that day is not today). He fell asleep soon after we hit the road, leaving me alone in my thoughts and worries about what this experience was going to bring out of me.

I took a leisurely drive around the museum once we arrived and parked at an adjacent lot. My little one woke up the moment the car stopped. We made our way across the street, him in a stroller and me with camera in hand.

From where we parked we passed through the grounds where the federal building once stood. In its place, where people once worked and children played, were empty chairs and a reflecting pool. The rectangular pool is bookended with giant walls called "the gates of time." One is engraved with "9:01" and the other "9:03." The space in between represented the moment when time stood still and life changed for so many. On a field next to the pool are 168 empty chairs made of glass and bronze each with a name of someone who was killed. Included in the set are 19 small chairs for the children who perished. Three unborn children also died and their names are etched in glass along with the names of their mothers.

The museum is adjacent to the grounds in a building that was once the Law Journal Record Publishing Company. The museum spans two floors walking visitors through the day. It begins with the words: "Just like communities everywhere, it is the start of a day like any other day."

It's almost like watching a movie and knowing the ending. You read about the regular lives of people the meetings, the conventions, the regular events of a normal day, and all the while you know their lives are about to forever change.

I'd been warned previously to avoid the glass door leading visitors to a room where they can hear audio footage of the actual explosion and of the people. Having my son with me I thought he might be too frightened of the sounds so we avoided it but there was plenty to experience without the sounds. The following rooms had news reports, interviews, photos and video. There isn't a way to walk through and not see the depth of the devastation.

The museum follows volunteers, law enforcement, the media showing the many moving parts following the bombing.

Visitors learn about the size and scope of the human ability to sacrifice as people ran into the building to save others, as those in surrounding areas drove in to donate what they had, of blood drives with donors waiting hours to provide life-giving blood to victims.

The most difficult part for me was hearing the story of parents who rushed back to search for their children. These parents went to different locations looking for them and once finding where their children were, were unable to ever recover them. I had to leave. I could not help but think of those who were lost during the shooting I was witness too. About parents who lost children I think of them often. What pain they must experience. What strength they have.

I'm talking to friends on Facebook as I grapple with what to write. I tell one friend, "Having him (my 2-year-old son) there was pretty hard too. Just hearing about those parents who lost their children, it felt weird. There is my child running around happy and I'm listening to these people talking about how they never saw their children again."

I listen in on the live memorial service as someone comments on the number of babies on the front row who are crying throughout the service. He partially quotes Carl Sandburg, who said, "A baby is God's opinion that life should go on."

That's close to how I felt as I watched my son run through the memorial grounds: New life is going forth where so many perished.

As I wrap up this article, I hear names read from the podium inside the church. I stop to listen. It seems the least I can do. Some of the readers are family members of those lost. It's heartbreaking. So many names are children. I put my head down and cry.

When I left the museum and memorial I thought to myself, "I'll never go back there, it was just too emotional," but then I remembered the children in my life. They need to know what happened. It's important that they know and that we won't forget.