Yes, Alan was surprised and grateful when he saw his pickup. And I was surprised and grateful for the important lessons I learned that day. First of all, despite his tactless approach, the reporter brought home a very important point. Through his pain, the man who lost his spouse taught me to cherish mine. I will look for those “special” things to do for Alan.
Secondly, and maybe more importantly, God does care about us, all of us. He hears the prayers of those whose suffering seems unbearable. He cares. And he hears those of us who need a little boost when we have set out to do something special for someone we love.
Pam Bumpus
Why Are You Waiting?
The more you praise and celebrate your life, the more there is in life to celebrate.
Oprah Winfrey
I get many e-mails, and every day I sort through a host of funny pictures, ribald jokes and forwarded chain letters that I read, enjoy and summarily delete. But every once in a while I receive an e-mail of significance—a collection of words important enough to compel me to share it with my cyberspace amalgamation of family and friends. Which is exactly what happened on Tuesday morning, September 11, 2001.
A writer friend of mine sent me a most thought-provoking e-mail, which she entitled, ironically enough, “Some thoughts for a happy day.” The theme of the composition was the need to “seize the moment and live life to the fullest.”
I read it, reread it and realized that the electronic transmission perfectly matched my own personal philosophy. Further, it provided a needed reminder that life is short so we need to play hard and enjoy it. I tapped into my lengthy e-mail address book and began forwarding the worthy correspondence to family and friends. In the process, I retitled it “Life as it should be lived.”
In one of those serendipitous life moments, as I hit send and put my group mailing on its merry way, my phone rang.
It was my husband urging me to turn on the television. Within moments, my mind was reeling as I watched the incredulous turn of events play out in New York City and Washington, D.C. Conflicting emotions of fear, anger, sorrow and compassion pulsed through my body, while the relentless journalism queries of who, what, when, where and why tortured my writer’s brain.
The last time I visited the Big Apple, I went to the World Trade Center. I sat at the bar in the rooftop Windows on the World restaurant and felt as if I was truly on top of the world. It was a memorable evening that is forever captured in a group picture I have hanging on my office wall. And now, in a matter of moments, the picture and the people in it are all that remain of that magical evening. Moving my glance from that celebratory photo to the devastating reality unfolding on the television screen, I felt suddenly isolated. I wanted, and needed, to reach out and touch another human being, to assure myself that no matter how shattering this incomprehensible event might be, my family and my friends were still alive and well, and my sense of normalcy was going to survive.
At about that same moment, e-mail messages began filling my inbox—all referring to the same subject—“Life as it should be lived.” I looked at the senders’ names and discovered many of the family and friends that I had just written to moments earlier.
As I opened their letters, a flood of grief and fear filled my computer screen, along with phrases that spoke of the value of family and friendship.
At the same time, my phone began ringing. My husband, my daughter, my sister-in-law, my friends, fellow writers—people from New York to California—called, one after another. Everyone was responding to the same need to reach out and ensure the stability of their lives. When, at last, each of our senses and sensibilities had been soothed, we said our loving good-byes, promising to talk more often and get together soon.
I refocused on the day’s terrible events as they continued to unfold. I also returned to the e-mail that had so innocently started my morning. I read it again, this time with a new focus and understanding, lingering over the final line that read, “If you were going to die soon and had only one phone call you could make, who would you call, what would you say and why are you waiting?”
For the countless numbers in those four airplanes, three office buildings and random city streets, that question is now irrelevant. For the rest of us, perhaps of greater import than the question is how will we decide to answer.
Christina M. Abt
Standing in Solidarity
Cultivation of tolerance for other faiths will impart to us a true understanding of our own. For me, the different religions are beautiful flowers from the same garden, or they are branches of the same majestic tree.
Mahatma Gandhi
Five miles from our home in LaVerne, California, are two Muslim schools that I did not realize were there until the days following the terrorist attacks in September. Then came that day, September 11, 2001, that changed every American’s life in some way. It is interesting to notice that the 911 in its dateline is the emergency telephone number throughout our country. It is a reminder of how so many felt helpless and threatened during the tragedy.
It became a time to watch the unbelievable scenes on the television news. Later, a question came to my mind. What could I ever do to help ease the pain in this tough situation? One answer came very unexpectedly.
My husband, Chuck, a pastor in the Church of the Brethren, was invited by a Muslim acquaintance to an interfaith meeting on the Friday following the attacks. There, one idea presented was to give support to the Muslim schools, which had closed upon hearing the news of the terrorist attacks.
A few days later, a phone call came asking us to go stand in front of these schools when they reopened. All we were expected to do was to be a “presence” there, to show our support for the Muslims as human beings and fellow Americans, not as terrorists. It sounded simple enough.
With some uncertainty, I arrived at the gated school the morning it reopened, September 19. Several other Brethren, as well as people from other denominations came. Our waving, smiling and greetings began to be returned to us immediately by the parents and teachers as they drove into the drop-off area. Many expressed their appreciation for us being there. As days passed, we were given donuts, flowers, letters of thanks from the students, a breakfast and a thank-you luncheon where plaques were presented to the LaVerne and Pomona Fellowship Churches of the Brethren. These plaques state that we are united under the same God.
We have become acquainted with these dear Muslims who are more like us than I could have imagined. Never have they tried to convert us or terrify us. They have been very accepting of who we are. In fact, it was an amazing moment when one Muslim stated that some of them wanted to come to our worship service in LaVerne. Her faith encouraged learning about other faiths, she reported. The date of October 14 was set for their visit, and thirty of these new Muslim friends were warmly greeted by our congregation.
The following Monday, we heard that their attendance at our church had been a meaningful time for them. They sent a note of gratitude to the LaVerne congregation.
For us, a relationship with the Muslim community is just beginning. We have been invited to attend their worship service. We have scheduled a planning session to determine how we can work together. Out of tragedy has emerged a Christian-Muslim relationship that is exciting and fulfilling. Little did I dream of what blessings were in store for us from being just a “presence” at the Muslim City of Knowledge School, and little did I know how much our presence would mean to the teachers and students. A thank-you note from a fifth-grader said it all:
Dear People,
You make me feel safe. Without you, I wouldn’t feel safe. I like how polite you are. With you I won’t feel suspicious. This is a thanks from my best friends and me.
Love,
Hassan
Shirley Boyer
Neighbors Knowing Neighbors
Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.
Lendil Phillips
We were waiting. All of us. Since September 11, 2001, we were waiting for another
attack. We had been warned by our President, and now we were wondering when it would come and where it would come. Though we were told to go about our lives as we ordinarily would, it seemed impossible to forget that somewhere in the country, a terrorist or a group of terrorists, was about to strike again. And they hated us enough that they would eagerly die so that we might die.
And so we met, a group of us, at a neighbor’s house. We went to talk. To express our feelings about what had happened and what might happen. At first we just discussed the events and shared our shock and anger. We asked questions of one another. Why did this happen? Why didn’t we know? Why are we hated like this? The fear circled the room as we discussed our helplessness. Most of us had met before, but this was a different kind of meeting. We were asking each other for help. We were neighbors getting to know one another.
And then someone asked, “What can we do?” She didn’t mean the country or the state. She meant our community. She meant herself. What could she do to take back the control and fight the helplessness? What could we all do in that room, she asked, that would take away the control from the terrorists and bring it back into our own hands?
It was then the group decided to take action. We would form a neighborhood watch program, only this one would not just include crime in the community, but we would also be concerned with terrorism and the vigilance it demanded in order to be defeated. We might meet in a church or synagogue, where we could keep a survival kit with blankets, water, first-aid supplies, battery-operated radios, anything that might become necessary during an emergency. We could meet with the police, firefighters and emergency crews and let them know we were there to help them. We would work together and join the community in caring about one another. We would fight the fear and the helplessness by getting to know our neighbors. Old neighbors had moved away. New neighbors moved in every day. We would get to know them also. We would introduce ourselves, bring a plant, welcome them to the community.
There were elderly people in our town. Through this program, we could watch out for them. Our block captains could have their phone numbers and contact them if we needed to be evacuated. They would know they were not alone. There were mothers who worked outside the community. We could have their work phone numbers and if there was an emergency, we would get in touch with them so that they would not worry about their children. We could have “safe houses,” marked so that the children would know which house to stop at if a problem arose on their way home from school. We could meet once a week or once a month to discuss the news and upgrade our own program. We could get to know each other and each other’s needs. No one would be a stranger in our town.
The terrorists settled their nests in communities where neighbors didn’t know neighbors, or if they did, they didn’t care. They knew our habits but we didn’t know theirs. We worked, we played, we enjoyed life. We were unaware we were being watched. They watched us but we didn’t watch them. They thought they knew us. They thought we were unchangeable. That night we discovered our most important weapon against them: neighbors knowing neighbors. Neighbors caring about one another. Neighbors helping one another.
And if terrorists are looking for a place in which to settle, they’ll have to find another town.
This one isn’t available.
Harriet May Savitz
Is This Normal?
I learned that it is possible for us to create light and sound and order within us, no matter what calamity may befall us in the outer world.
Helen Keller
September 11, 2001. Four thousand gathered for midday prayer in a downtown cathedral. A New York City church filled and emptied six times that Tuesday.
The owner of a Manhattan tennis shoe store threw open his doors and gave running shoes to those fleeing the towers. People stood in lines to give blood, in hospitals to treat the sick, in sanctuaries to pray for the wounded.
America was different this week.
We wept for people we did not know. We sent money to families we’ve never seen. Talk-show hosts read scriptures, journalists printed prayers. Our focus shifted from fashion hemlines and box scores to orphans and widows and the future of the world.
We were different this week.
Republicans stood next to Democrats, Catholics prayed with Jews. Skin color was covered by the ash of burning towers.
This is a different country than it was a week ago. We’re not as self-centered as we were. We’re not as self-reliant as we were. Hands are out. Knees are bent. This is not normal.
And I have to ask the question, do we want to go back to normal? Are we being given a glimpse of a new way of life? Are we, as a nation, being reminded that the enemy is not each other and the power is not in ourselves and the future is not in our bank accounts? Unselfish prayerfulness is the way God intended for us to live all along.
Maybe this, in his eyes, is the way we are called to live our entire lives. And perhaps the best response to this tragedy is to refuse to go back to normal. Perhaps the best response is to follow the example of Tom Burnett. He was a passenger on Flight 93. Minutes before the plane crashed in the fields of Pennsylvania he reached his wife by cell phone. “We’re all going to die,” he told her, “but there are three of us who are going to do something about it.”
We can do something about it as well. We can resolve to care more. We can resolve to pray more. And we can resolve that, with God being our helper, we’ll never go back to normal again.
Max Lucado
Reprinted with permission of Bruce Beattie. ©2001 Copley News Service.
Act Two
The date is June 24, 1859. Atop a hill overlooking the plain of Solferino, Jean-Henri Dunant has a box seat view as Napoleon’s troops prepare for battle with the Austrians below. Trumpets blare, muskets crack and cannons boom.
The two armies crash into each other as Dunant looks on, transfixed. He sees the dust rising. He hears the screams of the injured. He watches bleeding, maimed men take their last breaths as he stares in horror. Dunant doesn’t mean to be there. He is only on a business trip—to speak to Napoleon about a financial transaction between the Swiss and the French. But he arrived late and now finds himself in a position to witness firsthand the atrocities of war.
What Dunant sees from his hill, however, pales in comparison to what he is soon to witness. Entering a small town shortly after the fierce encounter, Dunant now observes the battle’s refugees. Every building is filled with the mangled, the injured, the dead. Dunant, aching with pity, decides to stay in the village three more days to comfort the young soldiers.
He realizes that his life will never be the same again. Driven by a powerful passion to abolish war, Jean-Henri Dunant will eventually lose his successful banking career and all his worldly possessions to die as a virtual unknown in an obscure poorhouse.
But we remember Dunant today because he was the first recipient, in 1901, of the Nobel Peace Prize. We also remember him because of the movement he founded—the Red Cross.
Act One of Jean-Henri Dunant’s life closed June 24, 1859. Act Two opened immediately and played the remainder of his eighty-one years.
Many people’s lives can be divided into two acts. The first act ends when one decides to follow a new direction or passion. Dunant’s old life, driven by financial success, prestige and power, no longer satisfied him. A new Jean-Henri Dunant emerged in the second act of his life, a man who was now motivated by love, compassion and an overriding commitment to abolish the horrors of war.
The second act of some people’s lives may begin with a conversion or a major turning point. Others speak of a defining moment. The old self is laid to rest and a new self is born—one governed by principle, spirit and passion. You may be ready for Act Two. It is the final scene of a life that counts.
Steve Goodier
We shall go forward together. The road upward is strong. There are upon our journey, dark and dangerous valleys through which we have to make and fight our way. But it is sure and certain that if
we persevere, and we shall persevere, we shall come through dark and dangerous valleys into sunlight broader and more genial and more lasting than mankind has ever known.
Winston Churchill
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