Where Were You On 9/11?

Many of us will never forget that Tuesday when an ordinary morning was attacked by evil and changed America forever. It punched a hole in the fabric of our security. Up to then, most felt America was invincible.

Many families have a story to tell about that day. For those who lost loved ones, the story may still hold a painful grip on hearts—even ten years later. We have vivid memories of exactly what we were doing when we heard the fateful news. What were you doing?

Bob and I were up early that morning preparing to go to the airport in San Francisco to pick up our son, Nur, and his half-brother, Daak, returning from three weeks in Japan.

Showering and getting ready to leave, we listened to the news and made passing glances at the TV that sat in the corner between the bedroom and bathroom. We began to linger in front of the screen when the news broke that a small plane apparently hit one of the twin towers of the World Trade Center. Once cameras televised the scene, we were hooked—seeing thick, black smoke spew from the tower. Then watched in horror as a second plane, clearly a large plane, hit the South Tower.

I became numb, my mouth gaping as I held my hand over it. Then began to sob, realizing that we had been attacked by some horrible enemy of America. Even the news anchors claimed, "We are at war!"

Nur and Daak were in the air over the Pacific on Japan Airlines (JAL) headed for San Francisco. We learned that all air traffic was grounded and in-bound flights would be diverted. But where would his plane go? My heart pounded. God, please keep them safe.

Yes, it occurred to us that his plane could have been highjacked and now flew with a destructive intent toward the US. "I can't allow my mind to go there." I told Bob.

Our home became like a search and rescue hub. Radios and televisions were on throughout the house. We searched news sites on the Internet to gather every tidbit of information we could. Being ever mindful of the possibility of more attacks, we busied ourselves with finding our son to keep us from despairing over the state of the country.

Accurate information was very difficult to get on that day. Piecing together information from the radio and the Internet, we learned their plane should have diverted to Vancouver, Canada along with stranded passengers from thirty-three other international flights intended for the US when the terrorists struck.

We operated in a surreal world that day as did every other American. The day seemed to last forever as details of the tragedy came together. Two jumbo jets struck the World Trade Center Twin Towers causing them to collapse. Another plowed into the Pentagon. And another crashed in a field in Pennsylvania thought to have been bound for Washington DC.

No word about our son.

Finally, at 7:30 PM we heard from Nur. I heaved a sigh of relief. He called us from a pay phone at the Vancouver airport after he and Daak were allowed off the plane. Their plane had been sitting on the airport tarmac for seven hours!

"We didn't know what had happened until we got off the plane."

"What did the pilot tell you?" I wondered what kind of nightmare he might have endured all those hours.

"He told us that something happened and we had to go to Vancouver. I didn't know what to think."

Obviously confused with the situation, JAL told disembarking passengers they were “on their own” to get lodging and get home. Thank God for the Internet and airport courtesy phones. We procured lodging for Nur and Daak and paged them to communicate the information.

Then the waiting game began.

We tried to figure our what to do to get them home. We booked flights on the Internet with Alaska Airlines hoping to get them home the next day, but learned flights were still grounded. Each day we attempted to get them a flight to no avail.

Finally on Thursday September 13, we heard that misplaced flights would fly to their originally intended destination. We contacted the boys at their hotel instructing them to get in touch with JAL.

Early that next morning we prepared again to pick up our son at the San Francisco airport. On the way we picked up balloons and called the local TV station.

Waiting in the reception area for incoming international flights, we watched throngs of Japanese passengers from the JAL flight appear from behind the wall that separated us from immigration. Seeing Nur and Daak eventually emerge gave my heart a lift. He's home and safe.

After the media interviewed the boys about their experience, we travelled back home. I contemplated what I felt at Nur's arrival. Home and safe had new meanings. Yes, he was home in America, but was he safe—were we safe?

Now ten year later, I think of safety and home in a different light—from an eternal perspective. And look to the LORD for my safety and understand that heaven is my real home.

"The name of the LORD is a strong tower; 

the righteous run to it and are safe." Proverbs 18:10

Non-Fiction Short Story: Lava For Breakfast

This short story follows a thrilling lava-viewing, ocean adventure on the Big Island of Hawaii. Relax and enjoy a front row seat to creation in process.

Lava For Breakfast

by Chris Pedersen

It was dark and raining when we arrived at our meeting location. Rain pounded the roof as we waited in the car and peered out the windows into the blackness of the parking lot. It was 4:30 a.m. As headlights came into view, I studied each vehicle… No boat. Not him.

On a Hawaiian vacation to the Big Island with friends, Dave and Lu, we booked a once in a lifetime excursion to see lava flow into the sea from the Pu’u ‘O’o crater of Kilauea volcano. Family members took the trip two years earlier and highly recommended it.

We stayed in Kona and were scheduled to rendezvous with the boat skipper, Shane, at 4:30 a.m. in Pahoa on the other side of the island. The meeting time required that we leave Kona at midnight. Ugh!

“Do you think he’ll call and cancel the trip?” wondered Dave.

“I doubt he’s willing to give up the steep fee he charges. No, he’ll be here.” My husband, Bob, saw things with a fiscal savvy.

We discussed how trusting we were to give our credit card information to a complete stranger who says he’ll meet us in a small town, in the middle of a rain forest, at an outrageous time. Not to mention, to do a crazy thing. It did feel a little unsettling.

It was 4:45 a.m. An attendant arrived at the gas station across the parking lot. Soon lights illuminated the station. He’s late!

At 5:02 headlights swooped into the parking lot… boat trailing. The truck and trailer pulled into the gas station. The driver jumped out and put gas in the truck. It was Skipper Shane.

We followed Shane to the launch sight at Isaac Hale Park and climbed into his 22-foot fishing boat with only a padded hatch cover to sit on. Crashing waves heard in the pitch dark stirred a twinge of fear as Dan, Shane’s deckhand, backed the trailer down the boat launch into the restless water. Shane started the engine as Dan jumped into the boat and the fishing vessel roared away from the tiny harbor, pushing through breaking waves. The boat heaved with the ocean swells and I felt my fingernails digging into the hatch cover. The rain lightly pelted us.

“By the way,” yelled Shane over the engine roar. “Life jackets are inside the hatch.” We exchanged uneasy looks and held on tight. Removing the cover to get life jackets would not be happening. Despite the easing storm, the rolling waves continued while the dim light of a pending sunrise shone in the East. It was 5:30 a.m.

Skipper Shane was a swashbuckling 28-year-old—“I’ve done this for twenty years" type. As we forged ahead on our adventure, I allowed my shoulders to relax, releasing the tension in my neck, and began to trust his ability to navigate the waters. We clipped along at 30 knots (about 35 miles per hour—56 km/hr) for 45 minutes through the swells—lurching and bumping—often crashing hard against the water.

The sun appeared above the horizon and I saw smoke trailing down the mountainside—lava burning up the jungle as it oozed its path to the ocean. We arrived at the first area where lava added land to the island—a front-row seat to creation in action. The skipper idled the engine and we floated along, edging closer and closer. We felt heat and smelled sulphur. Iridescent lava fingers reached over the land’s edge into the sea. Creating an eerie orange glow, steam swirled and drifted as the scorching liquid hissed into the water. The seesawing boat made it difficult to focus my camera for pictures and video.

The lava activity seemed to cover one-half mile of coastline. Bobbing thirty feet from the flowing lava, Shane encouraged us to dip our hand into the water. I reached in. Very warm. About 100 degrees—just like our spa back at home.

Shane steered the boat around and took us back past the scene one more time. Over the mountainside a rainbow appeared. Rising from a haze of steam, it arched high against a powder blue sky framed by billowing clouds of pale pink and soft gray and landed in the mountainside jungle. Beautiful!

As Dan put out fishing lines, I felt my body could no longer reconcile with the rocking boat. Trolling for fish on our way back would take ninety minutes. Oh boy! One and a half hours more of rocking. Over the side of the bouncing boat, I leaned and heaved. My husband, Bob (my hero), wrapped his arms around my waist, fearful that the next bump would pop me out of the boat. And as time wore on and on, others carried on pleasant conversations while I gazed longingly at the shore, watching waves crash against the black cliffs.

Finally near our destination, Skipper Shane maneuvered the boat to setup his approach. Little did we know, the beach here is a hot spot and the local surfers turned out for the ten to fifteen foot waves. Shane idled the boat for a moment and waited. Without warning he gunned the engine, caught a trough between waves and glided into shore. Facing aft, I saw a large wave too close behind us and wondered Is it going to break on top of us? Adding to the spectacle, a deft body boarder appeared on the crest as it swelled to a break. I saw the whites of the aged Hawaiian's eyes as he took the ride of his life—following a fishing boat at that. Suddenly we skidded right as the skipper cut the engine to make the harbor—a move required to avoid rocks or grounding the boat. Before any of us could react, we came to a restful stop, and Deckhand Dan leapt to the dock and fetched the truck and boat trailer.

I was relieved to be on land again and finally able to appreciate the sheer adventure of the trip, especially "surfing" into the harbor. In his best Disneyland-ride-operator-voice, Shane bid us farewell. “Thanks for your business and be sure to tell your friends you had a great time…” he hawked. That was one trip to tell the grandkids… But I’m not crazy enough to do that again.

It was 8:17 a.m. Time for breakfast.