I was answering emails about 3 p.m. on Monday when a New York Times breaking news alert showed up at the bottom of my screen. I clicked on it. Explosions at the Boston Marathon. My sister Shannon was running the race.
“U ok?” I texted. And waited. It was only a few minutes, but I’d packed in a lot of prayers.
I couldn’t help thinking of 9/11, when I was the one everyone was worrying about. The first tower fell as I was coming into our midtown Manhattan office. As the second tower was hit, and the truth unfolded, I imagined my family back in New Orleans just getting up for work, getting kids ready for school, going about their business as usual, having no idea what was happening in New York.
I didn’t want to worry them with the news but finally called my sister Shannon, the calm, levelheaded one, so she could spread the word that I was safe and that the people of New York were at their best helping one another any way they could. When Shannon heard my voice she broke down in tears. They had all been glued to their TV sets, praying, but no one had been able to get through on my landline or cell.
“OK,” Shannon texted from Boston. “Pls tell Mom.”
My mother answered the phone crying. She had my father on hold on the other line.
Another text from Shannon. She was still looking for her husband. Cell phones were spotty, her battery low. Finally, a couple hours later, they found each other. But by then we had all found one another, in prayer.
