itting in front of my office computer at 8:30 a.m., September 11, 2001, I felt a sudden urge to say a prayer of thanksgiving. I thanked God for His grace, mercy, and blessings in my life. I thanked Him for protecting my loved ones, whatever they were doing, wherever they might be at that moment. And I prayed for the Lord’s divine will in all things. Seconds later, a co-worker rushed in. “Linda, come quickly!” she shouted. “A plane just hit the World Trade Center!”

The Twin Towers of the World Trade Center were visible from almost any high vantage point in the city. The compactness of real estate and the narrow streets in lower Manhattan made the towers seem “up close and personal” when observed from the fifth-floor window of my office building. That morning a group of us stood there watching in horror and disbelief as flames and smoke rolled out of a gaping hole in the north tower. Another imprint, most likely from the aircraft’s wing, indicated the plane’s angle of entry. With curiosity in high gear and believing that this was a very terrible accident, I left my office and walked toward the scene.

It was not out of the ordinary for me to go there; I spent practically every lunch hour in the shops on the Trade Center’s lower concourse or elsewhere in the immediate vicinity. I moved through the crowd surging toward me from the direction of the Center. Some people were crying. Others were trying to place calls on their cell phones. As I approached Church Street, I heard what sounded like an aircraft flying low, then a thunderous noise. The ground shook. People panicked. Word swept through the crowd that the other tower had been hit. Four short blocks away, in front of the Burger King, I spotted a large cylindrical mass of twisted metal smoldering in the street. Somebody said it was from one of the

looked up. Some started to run. I did too. (Later I found out we were hearing the Trade Center’s north tower collapse.) I reached my building across the street to find that it also was being evacuated; my co-workers were gathering in the lobby with their belongings. Even though no one else was allowed to enter, one of the police officers let me hurry upstairs. While I collected my things, warnings blared from the emergency intercom that the building was closing and that all personnel must leave. Not another soul remained on my floor.

Out on the street, those not walking uptown looked for transportation. Just as I was about to enter the subway at Walker Street, there was another ominous rumble, then the ground vibrated under my feet. An officer informed the crowd that the second tower had collapsed. I hurried down the stairs into the subway and boarded what was to be the last “A” train to Penn Station at 34th Street that morning. For the next few hours, all public transportation in and out of Manhattan came
to a halt.

At Penn Station, people asking how to get to Queens were instructed to take the 59th Street Bridge. So I trekked across the span of steel, pulling my wheel-bag behind me. Visions came to mind of refugees from war-ravaged, Third World countries, dragging their personal belongings and struggling to reach the border before the enemy attacked again. I tried to control my thoughts: bridges are vulnerable targets—thousands of people could perish trying to leave the city. Grabbing my cell phone I tried for the umpteenth time to call my mother, but the lines were either overloaded or knocked out. I asked God to comfort her.

A state of alert
Every day I find myself affected by some aspect of that tragic Tuesday, probably more deeply than I care to admit; I was restless and unable to sleep for many nights afterward. I wonder about the identity of the person I saw falling with the debris. One of my “train buddies” is among the missing; I so enjoyed the laughs we once shared about the antics of her teenaged daughter. A friend who worked across the street from the World Trade Center saw horrors she has found difficult to handle; another friend employed in the towers had to run for her

life, escaping before the towers collapsed.

My co-workers used to call me the “bag lady,” teasing me about the amount of stuff I carried with me every day—but not so much any more. My office building, as with others around the city, has been plagued with false alarms and bomb threats. We are working under what my boss calls a “state of alert,” ready to evacuate at a moment’s notice. So for now I have retired my trusty wheel-bag.

Reopening for business
I still walk around the area near the World Trade Center—now called “ground zero.” Police barricades keep sightseers from getting very close. People gather on the corner of Park Row and Ann Street and other choice spots trying to catch a glimpse of the rubble. They snap photographs of nothing. Occasionally at work I have felt slightly nauseated from the odor of charred ruins drifting through the air. Some days the smell is stronger than others. Nonetheless, many businesses in the area have reopened; the city is making an effort to move forward.

While the events of September 11 continue to influence my daily routine, I can rejoice and give God thanks. Emotionally I’m clearing some debris so that I, too, can “reopen for business.” The spirit of depression is lifting. There is fresh impetus for a celebration of the life and liberty I have come to know through Jesus Christ. In all things, I give thanks for a place in the Kingdom where I will go live with my Heavenly Father and get to know Him better. We can share a cup of coffee and chat. I give thanks that I am not on the outside wondering, “Where is God?” amid all this insanity. “Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ” (Ephesians 5:20, KJV). •

Linda Dail is a systems analyst for a municipal agency in New York City and is pursuing her master of divinity degree at the New York Center of Bethel Seminary of the East. A member of Gethsemane Soul Saving Station in Rosedale, Queens, she serves as administrative director of the church’s outreach program and ministry.