At the end of the summer 2001, I surrendered. I put both my sons into school against my own better judgement and wishes. I cursed the world for allowing my ex-husband (and all the others involved ) to keep me from doing what I knew was right. My severely autistic son did not get taken right away. The school district had to arrange a special bus to pick him up. I prayed that bus would never come. But eventually it did. The bus came and picked him up sometime after 8:30 on September 11th, 2001. I regretted it the moment the bus pulled away. I went inside and screamed and cried and inside; died.
I don’t know how much time passed. It can’t have been long, before my mom (who watched the news every morning) called and told me about the planes hitting the towers. It felt like it had been hours and when she told me. I didn’t care. I hated the world so violently at that moment. Eventually, my body still shaking with fury, I turned on the news and watched the reenactments of the planes. I knew I should feel bad but I still couldn’t care. I remembered the voice warning me of this when I wrote the Red Letters but I didn’t care. It wasn’t until the towers collapsed, the shock of seeing those buildings crashing down, finally my fury abated. I still felt dead inside, but my hate was gone. Sorrow and a sense of mourning took the place of my hate .
As the days passed, guilt and hopelessness came to be my close friends. My sons drew away. My sons cried. I knew they were being hurt at school. But I was paralyzed, unable to help. My ex-husband came to the school meetings and blamed everything on me. I was too tired of fighting to argue. I put on fake smiles at the meetings and cried at home as I watched my sons lose their way. As the years passed worse things happened, I eventually tried to kill myself.
But the voice was still there. It told me I would not be allowed to die. I could continue to hurt myself but death was not allowed. I had a job to do and it was still waiting for me . I guess I believed it because I called 911, went to the hospital, choked down charcoal and got better.
The guilt never left me. I know it seemed silly to believe that me writing those Red Letters actually made 9/11 happen, but that was not the first time that the voice told me something would happen and it did, nor has it been the last. In fact I eventually had to admit I can not remember the voice ever telling me something would happen and it didn’t.
For a long time the question of how could my feelings matter so much plagued me, I would imagine a person throwing a single small stone. Most places it wouldn’t matter, but what if you were standing on a mountain and you threw the stone on a pile of others stones and set off an avalanche. Eventually those stones would have fallen anyways but the triple connection, first the prophetic graveyard dream, then the voice and vision and last that the time so perfectly coincided with my son being picked up by the school bus, I could not shake the suspicion there had to be a connection.
So what is the sane thing? Science can neither prove nor disprove God. In the end, I decided it didn’t make sense to not listen simply because the “voice” couldn’t be explained. So I listened more.