I was in a staff meeting at First Pres of Macon, GA.  The conference table was surrounded by several pastors, secretaries, and other support staff.  Suddenly, the receptionist barged in.  We had just received a call from the distraught wife of one of our members.  A plane had hit one of the World Trade Center buildings and he was there for some training for his new job.  A plane?  Probably a Cessna veered off course, I thought. After all, those are really big buildings. I had seen them in person only three days before when I flew out of JFK back to Atlanta on my way home from a missions trip to Odessa, Ukraine.   The meeting broke up.  Maybe someone ought to go see the wife.  I’ll go.  I know the husband fairly well.

One of the secretaries turned on a radio. It was no Cessna that hit the tower. It was a passenger jet. Then, as I stood in her office doorway the radio announcer said another plane had hit the other tower.  My knees felt weak.  I drove to the home of the woman who called the church.  What would I do?  What would I say?  What was going on?  Were we at war?

I arrived to find the wife, her Mom, and her husband’s Mom there as well.  Oh boy.  Still no word from the husband.   I prayed with them- still can’t remember anything I mumbled in that prayer.  We all then watched the TV in mute shock as the towers fell.  I felt helpless and useless.  What do you say?  Did we just watch this husband and son die?

Within moments the phone rang.  It was him.  He was alive and well.  Praise God!  He had evacuated the building under the watchful supervision of New York Policemen and firemen- many of whom undoubtedly died that day.

A day we’ll never forget.