A mother's call

The little fishing village of Soeby in Denmark lay pretty and peaceful in the hot midday sun on July 7. 1 entered the cool interior of the local 15th-century church and marveled at the beautiful, colorful frescos that adorned its white walls and ceilings. A woman guide shared some interesting historical details with a small group of us tourists. As we came to the pulpit, she translated for us the Danish words engraved on it. It was an admonition to keep from doing evil. "Looks like things haven't changed much since those days," she said sadly. "Have you heard about what happened in London today?" I hadn't.

Suddenly the peace and joy I had felt in this were shattered. My horror about the terrible bombings that the guide briefly described was mixed with an urgent concern for my son. He was living in the London area. Had he been traveling on the Underground that day? Was he safe? There was no way I could reach him right then. And my heart went out to God in a desperate search for peace and reassurance. I quietly prayed in the calmness of that spiritual sanctuary until I was able to feel the comfort of God's presence. How relieved and grateful I was when some hours later I heard Justin's voice on the phone: "Hi, Mom. I'm OK. Thanks for calling."

But what about all those who were hurt in the attacks? The suffering and destruction? How does one respond to that?

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August 8, 2005

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