• There are heroes all around us. A hero is someone who is willing to crash an airplane into a field, knowing that he is going to die, just to save the life of others—strangers he doesn’t even know. A hero is someone who runs into a burning building to help scared strangers to safety and pays for it with his own life.

  • People really do care about each other, and they really care about what is happening in the world. People can put aside their differences and work together for the good of mankind.

  • True leaders and true heroes emerge in times of crisis.

  • In times of adversity, you learn who your true friends are. A friend of mine, who I have known since childhood, wrote me to say she wanted to tell me how much she has valued our friendship over the past twenty years. She wanted to say it now, just in case she never got another chance. That’s a true friend!

  • Everyone around the world must overlook their differences and work together if we are ever to enjoy a truly peaceful world.

  • Renewing our relationship with God cannot be put off until tomorrow. Tomorrow may be too late!

  Finally, I’ve learned that all we need to do is reach out and help our neighbors, even when they don’t ask for help. Imagine what a better world this would be if everyone performed one random act of kindness every day.

  Victoria Walker

  Can’t We Call Game?

  At first I was hopeful. Colin Powell seemed to be creating a police action against terrorists, perhaps a new way of thinking about defense. No longer bombs and ground troops but detective work and international collaboration aimed exactly at the sources of terror. I have been so disheartened since we have actually started to deploy troops to Afghanistan. I have been so disheartened since anthrax has been the daily headline. I have been so disheartened since security has been the focus of all travel, the security of body searches and X-ray machines and M-16s at boarding gates.

  Now at Logan Airport there are even machines being installed smart enough to scan faces and locate possible matches. And with a curtailing of civil liberties, who knows, I may end up being held for questioning instead of flying to my friend’s wedding on a non-stop to Los Angeles.

  I remember my first week teaching public kindergarten in Brookline, Massachusetts. A slight boy with a freckled face and a quiet manner was afraid because a bully followed him to school. Well, this jolted me; I was no longer working in the sheltered environment of private schooling. I was no longer teaching in a place where parents dropped off their kids at the classroom door and picked them up at the end of the day and did almost everything else they could think of to make school life smooth in between. But I was mistaken.

  Jason’s parents were also at the ready to do whatever was needed. The question, of course, was to decide just what that was. His mother talked with me, she talked with the principal, she talked with the guidance counselor, she talked with the perceived bully’s teacher, who in turn talked with the perceived bully. I talked with Jason, my students and with students in other classes. Meanwhile his father took the pragmatic approach of hopping along behind Jason as he made his way to and from school, hiding against telephone poles, hovering in doorways, stooping behind shrubbery, watching over Jason as an omnipotent presence ready to spring and wrestle with harm whenever it arose. Of course, we all knew we couldn’t manage all of this activity forever.

  The second week of school Jason came in transformed, arm in arm with his bully. I observed, Something’s changed, what happened? “Oh,” said Jason, “I just said, ‘Want to be friends?’ And he said, ‘Yes.’ So we are. And that was that.”

  Since that day, Jason has been one of my handful of heroes. What he did was so direct, so appropriate, so right. Why had we adults made things so complicated? Why had we been so fearful? Of course, I recognize that some of what we did may have laid the groundwork for the resolution, but I always feel the world is in good hands when I listen to NPR and hear the byline, “This is Jason Beaubien reporting from . . .” But NPR isn’t the whole world and Jason has a limited sphere of influence.

  I am worried that learning to distrust will be, in the long run, more harmful to all of us than simply living by trust. I am worried that learning to be afraid is more harmful than simply trusting. I am committed to educating people about risks, even statistics, to prepare them for making choices only they can make. But I am not in the business of bullying them into being afraid, being terrorized, no longer trusting they can finding the goodness in other people. I am taking on the political stance of not giving in to being afraid. I am choosing to ignore the reign of terror imposed on us in the name of patriotism, in the name of justice. I choose to live from love, to work on garnering goodwill.

  Last weekend, my seven-year-old granddaughter, Keely, invited me for the first time to watch her play soccer. I was enchanted, all these six- and seven-year-old girls in their matching black-and-white shorts and cleats practicing their moves. There were six girls on the team; four would play while two warmed up—the Galaxies versus the Milky Ways. The coaches encouraged passing, stressed it was all about working as a team. It was not about anyone but rather about everyone. Each girl played every position and for equal time slots throughout the game. Late in the game, three girls on the Milky Way team fell down hard in quick succession. The referee said, “They are getting tired.” And so he called “game.” The Milky Ways huddled and chanted, “One, two, three, four, we don’t care about the score. Five, six, seven, eight, who do we appreciate—the Galaxies!” And then the Galaxies cheered the Milky Ways. Two lines formed and each girl slapped the palm of each opposing team member, saying “Good game” to each. When I congratulated Keely on kicking in two goals for her winning team, she said simply, “I got good passes; it was a good game.”

  I’ve been wondering what would happen if, in our war on terrorism, we asked, “Want to be friends?” If that did not get an affirmative response, how about asking some kindly referee to step in with, “People are starting to get hurt; I’m calling game.” Or maybe a neighborhood parent could simply take away the war toys for good.

  Molly Lynn Watt

  Reflections from a New Father

  Rather than fearing death, we’re embracing life—life is now seen as more precious, more meaningful than it seemed before that tragic fall day.

  Laura Bush

  My second daughter was born on September 11, 2001, at 4:41 P.M. I wrote the following article for our church bulletin.

  I have looked forward to writing this article for about nine months, and I hoped that it would be filled with joyous words devoted totally to my gratitude to the Father for bestowing the same title upon me . . . again. Indeed, I am thankful that Anna Belle Skidmore was born on September 11, 2001 (seven pounds, thirteen ounces and twenty inches long, with red hair and blue eyes like her sister), but my heart is heavy that as our family added a member, so many other people lost those who they had brought into this world. Although the world Anna Belle was welcomed into is a different world than the one that awaited her a day earlier, let’s reflect on the words of the doctor as she held my daughter for her first unaided breath while a nearby television relayed the unfolding tragedy. Turning to everyone in the room, the doctor said, “May this child be a reminder of who is really in control of our world.”

  The day of my daughter’s birth will always be connected with memories and memorials of death, but on 4:41 P.M. on Tuesday, as images of death engulfed our minds, God made his way into the world . . . in our midst . . . among us . . . as he did so many years ago . . . in the image of a child. My friend shared a very poignant thought, reminding me that although the date of Anna Belle’s birth might forever be associated with the events of that day, it would be a blessing to know that it might also be the same day that marked the beginning of a rebirth of an awareness of God in our nation, in our schools and in our homes.

  On the way to the church to write these words, I heard “The Star-Spangled Banner” being played on the radio. Flags hung on the fr
ont doors of many houses on both sides of the road—one was even hand-drawn by a child. I have to trust that we gained a greater allegiance not only to the flag this day, but that we also became aware of our need as a nation to truly be “under God.” If July 4 is our Independence Day, perhaps September 11 should become our “Dependence Day”—a day in which we as a nation come to realize that our collective hope, future and lives were placed more securely in his hands.

  I, too, began a new life on Tuesday, just as my daughter, Anna Belle, began a new life.

  And just as Anna Belle, I was pulled from a place of safety, security and peace into a tragic, scary, unpredictable and hostile world.

  Even though Anna Belle was born into uncertainty, she was immediately placed into the hands of a father whose main desire is to protect her, provide for her and promise her a rich future. Her story is my story . . . and yours. We are all frail, tiny and vulnerable, and our physical lives come with no guarantees. Yet that part of us most carefully created in his image is safe in the hands of a protecting, providing and promising Father. September 11 will always, in one special way, be a celebration of life for this particular father. My prayer is that history will look back and one day celebrate it as a day of renewed life toward our Father.

  Another friend sent me these words in a simple but powerful note:

  On a day in which everyone is asking, “Why would God ever let this happen?” perhaps we should look at you holding your daughter and ask the very same question.

  David Skidmore

  The Mustard Seed

  Seeds of faith are always within us; sometimes it takes a crisis to nourish and encourage their growth.

  Susan Taylor

  In the darkest of days, we sometimes have to dig deep for the faith that will carry us through. It’s not always easy, as I recently learned.

  Like all Americans, September 11, 2001, is a day that I will never forget. My day started out with a promise to clean the house with my dear husband. Following the long illness of a loved one, we had neglected our most monotonous chores. It was time now to engage in this long-overdue task as even the cat was sneezing from all the dust.

  This Tuesday we were up early and worked diligently, even skipping our lunch. At 1 P.M. the phone rang. Our son-in-law was working at Roosevelt Field, a large shopping mall here on Long Island, and he was calling to ask if he could stay with us if he couldn’t get across the bridge to his home in Westchester that night.

  My husband spoke to him, and I watched as his face turned white. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Anne, quick, turn on the television set. New York City has been attacked!” he yelled.

  “What? Who? Where?” I stammered.

  “Just turn the set on,” he repeated.

  I ran to the living room, put on the TV and watched in horror. I stood in shock, watching the recast of the Twin Towers collapsing, the clouds of smoke billowing skyward, people running for their lives, screaming in terror. America was under attack! Soon, I started crying. My entire body shook. I kept saying, “Oh my God,” until I couldn’t believe it was my own voice I heard. My husband held me, and we sat in silence for the next hour, listening to the tragic reports. It was unreal, a science fiction movie—it just couldn’t have happened to our beautiful New York City. “All the people who worked in the towers, the rescue workers, the police, the firemen, all lost,” I cried.

  We quickly began to account for our own family members—who was where, who might be at risk. After a while, we discovered they were all safe. In the next few days we accounted for all our close friends and were extremely grateful. We heard stories from neighbors, friends and family about how the attack had affected them.

  We continued to watch the reports, praying for a miracle for the missing. It did not come. I fell into a depression, becoming deeply saddened by the loss of so many, enraged at the destruction of the city where I had been born and raised. When Sunday came, my husband dressed for church and I felt the tears come to my eyes. “I can’t go with you,” I said. He went alone. I stayed and lamented the sheer terror I felt within myself. What kind of world are we living in? I thought. Our poor grandchildren. Is this their inheritance: a world gone mad?

  For the next several Sundays, my husband attended services by himself. I tried to pray, I tried to have faith; it just wouldn’t come. I pushed myself each day just to get out of bed. I felt empty, lost and very confused.

  I’m not sure why, but on October 7 I told my husband that I wanted to go to church with him. He smiled and said he was pleased, and that I would be happy to know that Father Jim would be saying Mass that day. He knew I enjoyed this priest’s down-to-earth sermons. The theme of the service was the need for us to rekindle our convictions. It spoke of having faith if only the size of a mustard seed. Now, a mustard seed is very small, almost difficult to see on a normal basis. I cried through the entire service, yet when we left the church I felt a new resolve.

  That night I told my husband that I needed to show him something. From a box yellowed with age, I removed a small, round glass ball the size of a marble. I put it in his hand, and he asked, “What’s this?”

  I replied, “My mother gave that to me thirty-seven years ago when the baby died.”

  An infant son had passed away from a lung infection and I had gone into a deep depression. I couldn’t fathom the reason that God would allow something that unthinkable to happen. I lost all my faith and stayed away from church. Nothing was real for me at that time and no one could reach me to help. My heart was broken, my desire to live lost. My dear mother had pressed the small object that my husband now held in his hand into mine one evening. “My darling daughter,” she said, “all you’ve faced recently has been tragic, and there are no answers to the questions of why, but you must go on. I know it’s hard, almost impossible, but if you can have faith, if only the size of that mustard seed, you will begin to heal.”

  I stared at this person that I loved with all my heart and wondered how she expected me to believe what she was saying. She put the small glass object in my hand and said, “Just try, Anne.”

  That evening I continued to roll the ball over and over in my palm. I concentrated on the tiny brown speck in the middle of it. I felt myself get stronger. I felt the desire to believe that things would return to normal, that life would hold joy for me once again. I can have faith the size of that speck. I can do that, I can, I kept repeating it to myself.

  Thirty-seven years later, I held the round sphere that held the mustard seed in my hand. I prayed that night and once again, I felt stronger. We all need to hold on to the thought that we can also have the faith, the spirit, the resolve, if only the size of that small speck, to see us through this crisis. I know it won’t be easy, it never has been. However, in our country’s history, our darkest moments become our finest hours.

  Anne Carter

  Ground Zero

  Three months after September 11, 2001, I found myself walking the perimeter of Ground Zero in lower Manhattan with four other women. My cousin, Karen, and I had flown from Wisconsin to New York to attend the opening of my daughter Jeanne’s art show at a gallery in mid-Manhattan. Karen, a nurse, wanted to see Ground Zero because she planned to return for three weeks as a Red Cross volunteer to help care for the police and firefighters who would be working there twenty-four hours a day for at least another year.

  On that clear crisp December day, Jeanne, Karen and I invited my dear friend, Mary Ann, the executive editor of Guideposts Magazine, a New Yorker by love and by choice, to join us. Mary Ann and I have been friends since 1982, have stayed at each other’s homes and are counting the years until her retirement so we can travel together and nourish our friendship more often.

  The fifth woman with us that Sunday was Ellen, who taught art with my daughter at Long Island University. Ellen lived in an apartment just blocks from the World Trade Center area and actually witnessed both planes crashing into the towers and the buildings imploding. Like hundreds of ot
hers she dialed 911 the moment it happened.

  None of the five of us had been to Ground Zero before that day and somehow we knew it was something we needed to do as a group. We walked and walked around the perimeter, stared, wondered, shook our heads, shed tears and watched the firefighters working to put out the fires deep underground. We breathed in the acrid air that filtered up from below the streets and smelled like burning plastic. We saw hundreds of people filing by St. Paul’s Chapel where tall fences were installed to hold thousands of flowers, notes, letters, posters and the pouring out of love and grief from a nation of people who cannot comprehend what happened on those sixteen acres in New York City’s oldest section.

  We walked down the street where a half-dozen huge dump trucks lined up to take their turn removing the steel and the ashes of the dead. We five women understood that the air was filled with toxic chemicals and perhaps everyone should wear masks to protect themselves but we didn’t. Somehow it seemed that if we physically breathed it in, we would understand it better. Ellen mentioned that by breathing we became a part of the dead.

  Ground Zero is a holy place. People are quiet, respectful. On one narrow street where we had to step over broken sidewalks and makeshift wooden walkways, there were a dozen handmade signs begging, “Please, no photographs or videos.” But around the corner, down another street there were people taking snapshots and filming the hubbub in and around the gaping hole. The mind cannot comprehend such devastation, nor remember the details, so photos are necessary.

  I wanted to remember the coarse, black, wet ashes in front of the church two blocks from where the towers stood. I wanted to remember the chain-link fences that protected the workers and the people who flocked to that neighborhood.