David
and the
World Trade
Center
by Linda Moran

It was Christmas Eve Mass and the pews were packed with people and coats. Many of these people around me, I thought sadly, were hurt by the terrorist attack. Our town in northern New Jersey is a bedroom community of New York City, and our parish alone lost twelve lives in the World Trade Center attack. I wondered what this was like for them today, a day that is supposed to be so filled with joy.

So packed like sardines were we, that I couldn't help but to strike up a conversation with the woman next to me. "Yes, I have four kids, in fact, but three of them are not in this pew—they're up there in the choir," I said. "See the little boy with Down syndrome? He's mine. And the two girls next to him." "Oh," she said with surprised delight. "You're David's mother!"

That was a phrase I was used to. It seems everywhere I go, I meet people who've been blessed by my nine-year-old boy. But this day I'd hear a story to exceed all others. The Christmas Mass hadn't started yet. We'd gotten there early for good seats, which left time for me to talk with this stranger next to me.

"In that case," she went on, "then I must tell you a story." "You see," she explained, "my husband used to work in the World Trade Center. In fact, he quit his job just two weeks before the attack. On that awful day, he lost dozens of friends, including about ten very good friends. One of them called us from the tower and told us he knew he wouldn't get out. We had so many funerals to go to that many of them overlapped. We were only able to make it to seven in total. We were numb and crying. Our worlds were so shattered, and we had survivor guilt on top of it all. My husband's grief was overwhelming, and I didn't know how to help him. Just days after the attack, we went to church, and happened to sit next to your family, with your son closest to us, while you and your husband were at the other end of the pew, and probably didn't see what happened."

"No," I said, intrigued, and hurting for her. "What happened?"

"I started crying uncontrollably, and then an amazing thing occurred. When the 'Our Father' prayer began, your son David reached out and gripped my hand. He held on all through the prayer, and didn't let go his grasp when it was over. And neither did I. Because at that moment, I felt a tremendous sense of peace and comfort."

My child could not have understood why she had been crying that day, but he certainly had understood what was needed. Now, hearing this story on Christmas Eve, I looked up at David in his choir robe, in awe—yes, of my son, but moreover, of God's greatness.

Copyright © 2002, Linda E. Moran. All rights reserved.