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As September 11, 2001, dawned, I was feeling no need for a protector. Young and energetic, I had moved from San Antonio, Texas, to New York City and was loving the adventure of being on my own.
In the process, I had drifted from my strong Catholic upbringing—not because I stopped believing but because other things seemed more important than praying and going to church.
On that radiant Tuesday morning, I tried a new way to my job in Lower Manhattan. Usually, I took the subway and then crossed the World Trade Center plaza to reach the American Express headquarters and my cubicle on the forty-sixth floor. Because I took the bus instead, I was walking into the building—not outside in the plaza—when I heard the BOOM.
Spared and Sustained. Not until I got off the elevator and entered my office did I begin to grasp what had happened. My coworkers were very agitated. They said a plane had flown by—so low and close that they could see its passengers—and had crashed into the…
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