Where were you?
It was a beautiful day. Not a cloud in the sky. I was home with four young children, and I had another on the way. My oldest was seven, and excited as can be because the roofers were coming.
Usually punctual and boisterous, today the roofers were both tardy and subdued. “Turn on your television” was all they would say. In disbelief, I learned that our country had been attacked. I watched in horror as a plane plowed through the second tower. My children were too young to understand, but I gazed at my growing belly and wondered what kind of world I was bringing my child into.
Recognizing that if those planes were hijacked and used as flying bombs, there could be others in the air at that very moment, I gathered my children around me and we prayed. We prayed for those trying to escape the inferno in New York. We prayed for any hijackers who hadn’t yet made their move, that they would have a change of heart. We prayed for those who might be, at that very moment, about to become part of another strike. We prayed that the passengers and crew of any plane still under attack would be able to resist and overcome their hijackers.
Shortly after that we heard that a third plane had crashed into the Pentagon. The wrong side. Was that an answer to prayer?
How many more planes would there be?
Certain that there were others up there somewhere, we continued praying. And while I mourned those who died in the crash in Pennsylvania, I was (and continue to be) profoundly grateful to those who stood up to the hijackers, and gave their lives in defense of our country.