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Before 9/11, I had only stepped inside a Catholic church a handful of times. But 23 years ago, when the towers came down just blocks from our home, an unexpected encounter with the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass at a church in Midtown Manhattan changed my life forever.
On July 6, 2001, my husband Brian and I moved into a 24th-floor apartment with a terrace that offered a stunning view of the nearby Twin Towers. Just weeks later, we were standing on that very terrace, watching black smoke billow from the North Tower, when a passenger jet roared overhead—mere feet above us—on its way to strike the South Tower.
The impact was so forceful, it threw us back into our apartment, briefly knocking us unconscious. When we came to, we ran—down all 24 flights of stairs—with our 40-pound dog, Gabriel. In my panic, I didn’t even put on shoes or change out of my nightgown. We fled toward Battery Park, seeking refuge, only to be trapped there when the towers collapsed, showering us with ash, smoke, and debris.
Eventually, we were rescued by boat and spent the night in New Jersey. We returned to Manhattan the next day, unable to access our home, which lay within what officials were calling “The Frozen Zone.” A friend in Hell’s Kitchen kindly took us in.
Just days earlier, we had been settling into our new Financial District apartment. Now, we were effectively homeless and unemployed. Brian began sleeping through most of the day. I couldn’t sleep at all. Our dog, Gabriel, had become gravely ill from the toxic dust, and we left him at an emergency vet with no assurance he would survive. We wandered the city in a daze, gathering essentials from donation centers and trying to understand what our lives had become.
One sleepless day, I walked aimlessly down Broadway, overwhelmed by grief and silence. Flyers of the missing were plastered on every wall, candles flickered on sidewalks, and strangers wept openly. There was a reverent hush over the city—New Yorkers, once known for their hurried steps and tough exteriors, now paused to grieve together. But I felt spiritually adrift.
That’s when I passed by the Shrine Church of the Holy Innocents on West 37th Street. The doors were open, and something—Someone—nudged me to go in.
The church was beautiful: a soaring Gothic interior, sunlight filtering through stained glass, and a striking mural of the Crucifixion above the altar. Though I wasn’t Catholic, I felt drawn to the stillness. I slipped into a back pew, not intending to participate in anything. But the prayers of the priest, spoken in calm reverence, stirred something in me. Without even realizing it, I found myself praying too.
“Lord, please comfort the families of the dead. Please heal this city. Please help Brian. Help me. I want to rely on You, but I don’t know how.”
That moment in the pew was not a flash of conversion, but something deeper—a quiet awakening. I realized I had grown spiritually numb. My faith, once warm and familiar, had grown cold through years of distraction and self-reliance. Sitting in that church, surrounded by strangers who were also seeking solace, I felt the spark of grace. I resolved to stoke that ember of faith again.
Our journey forward wasn’t easy. The following months were filled with trauma, unemployment, and the slow, painful process of rebuilding our lives. But I remembered the peace we found in that church, and we began searching for a spiritual home. Eventually, we found a church community and renewed our walk with God.
Since then, Brian and I have committed ourselves to service. We founded Loving All Nations, a nonprofit organization that helps the poor and vulnerable—particularly the homeless, a state we briefly knew all too well. Brian also raises funds for a scholarship in memory of a Clemson fraternity brother who died in the North Tower. I use my voice as a writer, speaker, and licensed NYC tour guide to share stories of 9/11, so that we never forget the lives lost or the lessons learned.
As we look back on the past 24 years, we see how deeply 9/11 has shaped who we are and what we do. And I am especially grateful that my faith, now the anchor of our lives, was rekindled through the prayers of the Church, the presence of Christ in the Eucharist, and the stillness of an unplanned visit to Holy Innocents.
That sacred space became a doorway back to God—and ultimately, a doorway home.
