On September 11, 2001, I was on the phone at my desk in 2 Chase Manhattan Plaza, a few blocks away from the World Trade Center. The second plane had hit. I was frantically trying to warn people in the downtown buildings I supervised. “We gotta get out of here,” my buddy Andre said. “The Towers are collapsing!”
We made our way to the lobby, where blackness enveloped us. People were screaming. “Where do we go?” someone cried.
“Here,” I called out, and Andre and I led a few others into the terrifying dark cloud of smoke and dust outside our door. “Follow my voice,” I told the group. “We’ll head for the East River.”
The narrow streets of downtown New York are like a maze. How would we find our way in the darkness? Lord, lead me to the water.
A warm wind pushed me from behind. “This way,” I said, suddenly sure, as if a hand were on my back pushing me in the right direction. I plowed ahead, around corners, down steps, through back alleys, calling out every move aloud, until the wind at my back ceased.
Just a little more, Lord. We can’t make it without you.
“Are we lost?” someone called.
And then, a cool whisper, the familiar breeze that came off the river, hit my face. Once again, I followed the wind until I turned a corner and saw the glittering East River there before me like a promise.
