Now it is time to share our grief. And often that is best done through story. One Tuesday Morning was my way of grieving, and maybe … just maybe it'll be your way too.
For those of you who've read all my novels, let me tell you that my family is doing well. My husband is enjoying his time away from coaching, a time to be with our children and lead our family into a closer walk of faith. Kelsey is a young teenager now, and our relationship with her is sweeter than ever. Tyler still gravitates toward storytelling and drama, and the four younger boys are most easily found on a sports field. As always, we cherish your prayers … especially for my family and my ministry of writing.
I leave you with the words of Jake Bryan—“I've prayed for God to touch your heart … He means everything to me, and I know that one day He'll mean everything to you too. On that day, you'll no longer have to be afraid, because you'll have God Almighty to lean on.”
For those of you whose faith is as strong as Jake Bryan's … I celebrate with you the joy of knowing the peace that passes understanding. But if the tragedy of September 11 has you confused or depressed, if your questions about that day still stand in the way of your relationship with the Creator, please, find a Bible-believing church and voice your concerns. I am convinced that only then will you find out the truth about the love of God.
Though death will one day find us all, we are not without hope. For God has won the victory over death.
Remember that.
In Christ's light and love … until next time,
Karen Kingsbury
PS … I'd love to hear from you at my website:
www.KarenKingsbury.com
or by emailing me at
[email protected] BEYOND TUESDAY MORNING
(A song)
BY KAREN KINGSBURY
(Chorus)
Let’s not move too far beyond Tuesday morning
Let’s not forget all the lives that were lost
Let’s not move too far beyond Tuesday morning
Remember the heroes remember the cost.
Time has moved on as time always will do
Healing has come both to me and to you.
The towers that stood now stand only at times
A memory that’s fading from all of our minds.
The flag on your bumper is yellowed and frayed
It’s only on Sundays we take time to pray
For families of folks who did nothing but go
To work Tuesday morning and never came home.
(Bridge)
Still they are crying and still they are trying
To understand all that America lost
Take time to remember, there is no denying
That one Tuesday morning and all that it cost.
Smile at a stranger or do a good deed
Help out a neighbor, love someone in need
Do it to honor the women and men
Who died Tuesday morning and ever since then.
Let’s not move too far beyond Tuesday morning
Let’s not forget all the lives that were lost
Let’s not move too far beyond Tuesday morning
Remember the heroes, remember the cost.
DEDICATED TO
Donald, my prince charming, who is forever praying for me, encouraging me, and giving me reasons to laugh. The wings are from God, but you are the wind. Every letter I receive, every life changed by the words God gives me to write, all of it is as much your ministry as mine. That’s how much I rely on your love and prayers. You told me when we married that you’d always love God more than me. Ever since then I’ve been thanking the Lord for that truth, because the love and light you bring to me and our children could only come from heaven above. I love you, Donald. With you, life is always a dance.
Kelsey, my precious daughter, so grown-up. Sometimes I look at you and do a double take. When did that kindergartner with the poofy bangs become the beautiful fifteen-year-old with model good looks? Back then I would say, “Who made you so pretty, Kelsey?” You’d giggle and answer, “Jesus!” It’s still so true today, only now, as you grow closer to Him, I see an even greater beauty. The beauty of Christ within you. I’m in awe of your choices, your high standards, your determination to keep God first in your life. High school already, Kelsey? Can you believe it? Your life is everything you dreamed about and the ride gets faster all the time. But in the quiet places of my heart you will always be my little Norm. I love you.
Tyler, my Broadway boy. Once upon a yesterday you would find whoever was home, stop what we were doing, and gather us together. Audience in place, you would sing. Song after song after song. Not regular kid songs, but songs from Annie, Oklahoma, Les Misérables, and Phantom of the Opera. We always knew you had a gift, but now we gather together in one room hoping you’ll sing. More people are listening, Tyler, and many more will in years to come. You are only twelve, but the gift God has given you in song and drama and writing leaves me speechless. The mother heart in me is trying to find balance between my excitement for your future and my trepidation, because one day I won’t have you and Kelsey singing and dancing in the background of our lives. You are the music of our home, dear Son, and even after you grow up, I will hear your song in my memory forever. I love you, Tyler.
Sean, my sunbeam. You are ten already and I can’t believe it’s been almost four years since you came from Haiti to live with us. You were the first one to open up about your past, to tell us of the hard times, days when you had to fend for yourself, eating dirt to survive. But today you are the first one with a hug and a smile, looking out for other people as easily as you breathe. You are a talented reader, a devoted son, and a respectful young man. I couldn’t be more proud of you. You are gifted in sports, yes, but that’s not why you’re the first boy picked when they form teams at recess. It’s because of who you are on the inside—the kind, loving person God made you to be. I’m forever glad God led you to our family; you belonged here from the beginning. I love you, Sean.
Josh, my rough-and-tumble sweetheart. Since I met you, I’ve known you had an amazing gift of persuasion. There I was at the Haitian orphanage, meeting Sean and EJ for the first time, but the first one to talk was you. “I love you, Mommy,” you told me, using beautiful English. Do you know that the room went silent, Josh? Forty-two children clamoring and laughing and yelling in that tiny orphanage courtyard, and all I could hear was you, a child I’d never met until that day. No question, God wanted you in our home, because you arrived on September 8, 2001. Three days later political tensions might have meant you would never come home. Isn’t God amazing? At ten years old, your talents are too numerous to mention, but above all God will use that wonderful charisma to bring people to Him. Save me a seat in the front row, okay, honey? I love you, Josh.
EJ, my wide-eyed overcomer. Like a precious, beautiful flower, you continue to unfold a little more each day, proving to everyone in your world that you are capable of great things, even at eight years old. I’m so proud of the way you hold your head high, the picture of kindness and character you present to the world. In the garden of life, you are becoming a leader, one forged by hanging onto Christ and letting Him pull you to the top. I know God has plans for all of His children, but yours gets a little clearer every day. I cherish our quiet times, when you sit beside me during devotions. Your smile makes our home so much brighter. I love you, EJ.
Austin, my six-year-old Green Beret. When God brought you safely back from infant heart surgery, I knew He had a special reason for letting you live. Now I can only dream of what He has in store. “I don’t need to learn piano, Mommy. I told you…I’m going to be a Green Beret!” That and a Green Bay Packer. Oh, and the next (blond) Michael Jordan. Or maybe a champion bull rider. All that rough, tough men’s town stuff, and you still cry when you think of Jesus on a cross. Talk about a heartbreaking cutie! But for now, the only broken heart is mine, because already our special babyhood days together are over. You are out of kindergarten, into full-day school like t
he others. But don’t be surprised, little first-grader, if one morning you look up and I’m there to take you out for a special date. One more time to share lunch and give-and-go and cuddle time. Whoever said it was harder letting go of your youngest was right. Keep holding onto Jesus, Austin. I love you.
And to God Almighty, the Author of Life, who has—for now—blessed me with these.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, when I bring my heart’s thoughts and dreams to the computer keyboard, it’s not without the help of a host of people.
In the writing of Beyond Tuesday Morning, I must first thank the people of St. Paul’s Chapel. It is every bit the mighty mission I tried to make it in the fictional story that plays out on the following pages. The volunteers at St. Paul’s continue to play a role in a healing that is far from complete. I learned much from my time at St. Paul’s, talking to volunteers and studying the mementos and memorabilia there.
While the rest of us watched in horror that terrible Tuesday morning as the Twin Towers collapsed, we eventually got on with our lives. Not so for many of the people in Manhattan—especially for hundreds of firefighters and their families. Because of that, I am grateful to each of you who still devotes his or her time to the healing process at Ground Zero.
Thanks also to the information office of the fire department of New York. With the cooperation of this office, we were able to send a thousand copies of One Tuesday Morning, the first book in this set, to the FDNY—four books per station. The letters I’ve received from New York City firefighters have often left me in tears.
They tell me they are desperate for light and hope, that the pain lives on every day. And that, in many cases, reading One Tuesday Morning gave them a reason to believe again, a reason to turn back to God and their families after being consumed by pain, grief—and even hatred.
I thank each one of you who wrote those letters, because it was your story that I had to complete in this book. Not literally, of course. Beyond Tuesday Morning is fictional, and any similarity to reallife people or situations is purely coincidental. But I pray that the hurting people in New York find hope the way Jamie Bryan does in this sequel.
The fact is, with God, the story need not end in grief and despair but with life. I pray you’ll find that message in this book.
Also thanks to my brilliant editor, Karen Ball, and to marketing expert Sue Brower, and to all my friends at Zondervan Publishing. Thank you for taking my idea about a story of life springing from the ashes of September 11 and helping it become what it is today. Also, a thanks to Cheryl Orefice who listened while I brainstormed the possibilities of Beyond Tuesday Morning.
A special thanks to my mother, Anne Kingsbury, who is also my assistant. You have a mind like mine and a heart for the ministry these books have become. Your presence in my life is heaven sent. I love you, Mom. I couldn’t do my job without you. And to my father, Ted, who continues to be my greatest cheerleader. Dad, remember when I was writing poetry as a teenager, and you told me I could do anything with God’s help? Even becoming an author? Well, I believed you—and look what God has done! I love you more every day.
Thanks also to my agent, Rick Christian. Rick, you pray for me and push me and protect me in ways that go beyond my highest expectations, proving I’m the most blessed writer of all. I stand amazed at your talents—and grateful that beyond anything in the publishing world, you desire God’s will for my life, that I serve Him, that I have time for my beloved husband and children, and that I listen to His call. How amazing it is to have found you!
When it comes to crunch time, and I find myself pouring out my heart on deadline, lots of people come together to fill in the gaps. With six kids, it would be impossible otherwise. And so a warm and heartfelt thanks to my husband Donald, my kids—who don’t mind having tuna sandwiches for a week on end, my sister Tricia, my parents again, and my good friends Cindy Weil, the Schmidt family, the Chapmans, Thayne Guymon, and Aaron Hisel, all of whom have on occasion caught frogs with Austin in my place.
Thanks also to my special prayer warriors, Ann Hudson, Sylvia Wallgren, Sonya Fitzpatrick, Marcia Bender, Christine Wessel, Teresa Thacker, and so many others who have written to me with promises of prayer. I feel you lifting my ministry up to Jesus time and time again. Sometimes with every breath. I couldn’t do this work without your support. Please, please, please keep praying.
And a thanks to my extended family, and to my friends Randy and Vicky and Lila Graves, Bobbi and Tika Terret, John and Melinda Chapman, Mark and Marilyn Atteberry, Kathy Santschi, and my many friends at New Heights Church, Christian Youth Theater, and at the local schools. Your encouragement, love, and support are a constant source of strength.
Also thanks to my retail family across the U.S. and Canada. I’ve met so many of you—store owners, managers, and frontliners—these past few years, and I still mean what I said back then. You are the other half of what I do. I’m so grateful for the way you’ve partnered with me. Please know that I continue to send people your way, and that I will always pray for your ministry in books.
Finally, thanks to God Almighty. He is the reason any of this is possible. The words are His, the ideas are His, the gift is His. I pray I might remain obedient to all He is asking of me in this season of writing. Thank You, God…thank You.
ONE
She was surviving; the commute proved that much.
Jamie Bryan took her position at the far end of the Staten Island Ferry, pressed her body against the railing, eyes on the place where the Twin Towers once stood. She could face it now, every day if she had to. The terrorist attacks had happened, the World Trade Center had collapsed, and the only man she’d ever loved had gone down with them.
Late fall was warmer than usual, and the breeze across the water washed over Jamie’s face. If she could do this—if she could make this journey three times a week while seven-year-old Sierra was at school—then she could get through another long, dark night. She could face the empty place in the bed beside her, face the longing for the man who had been her best friend, the one she’d fallen for when she was only a girl.
If she could do this, she could do anything.
Jamie looked at her watch. Nine-fifteen, right on schedule. Three times a week the routine was the same. From Staten Island across the harbor on the ferry, up through the park, past the brick walls that after September 11 were plastered with pictures of missing people, into the heart of lower Manhattan’s financial district, past the cavernous crater where the Twin Towers had stood, to St. Paul’s. The little church was a strangely out-of-place stone chapel with a century-old cemetery just thirty yards from the pit. A chapel that, for months after the attacks, had been a café, a hospital, a meeting place, a counseling office, a refuge, a haven to firefighters and police officers and rescue workers and volunteers, a place to pray and be prayed for. A place that pointed people to God.
All the things a church should be.
Never mind the plans for a new World Trade Center, or the city’s designs for an official memorial. Never mind the tourists gathered at the ten-foot chain-link fence around the pit or the throngs gawking at the pictorial timeline pinned along the top of the fence—photos of the Twin Towers’ inception and creation and place in history. Souvenir picture books might be sold around the perimeter of the pit, but only one place gave people a true taste of what had happened that awful day.
St. Paul’s.
The ferry docked, and Jamie was one of the first off. When it was raining or snowing she took a cab, but today she walked. Streets in lower Manhattan teemed as they always had, but there was something different about the people. It didn’t matter how many years passed, how many anniversaries of the attacks came and went.
The people of New York City would never be the same.
Yes, they were busy, still driven to climb the ladders or make a name for themselves in New York City. But for the most part they were more likely to make eye contact, and when they did, they were more likely to smi
le or nod or give some sort of sign that the bond was still there, that a city couldn’t go through something like New Yorkers went through September 11 and not be changed forever.
Jamie breathed in hard through her nose and savored the sweet mix of seawater and city air. Jake would’ve liked this, the way she was facing the situation, allowing her pain to work for good in the lives of others. She had lived in paralyzing fear for so long, but now—now that she’d lost Jake—she could face anything. Not in her own strength, but because Jake’s faith lived deep within her.
Funny how she’d come to be a volunteer at St. Paul’s.
It was Captain Hisel’s idea. He’d been Jake’s boss, his mentor. He’d found Jake—or the man he thought was Jake—in the aftermath of the collapse of the towers. Of course the man hadn’t been Jake at all but Eric Michaels, a Los Angeles businessman who came into Jamie’s life by mistake. A man she believed was her husband for three agonizing months.
A man who’d gone home to his family three years ago without looking back. And rightfully so. Jamie had told only a few people the details of that tender, tragic time. Captain Hisel was one of them.
The captain became a special friend in the months and years since the terrorist attacks. At first they shared an occasional Sunday dinner, but since shortly after the first anniversary of the attacks they were together at least twice a week, volunteering at St. Paul’s and sharing lunch or dinner. He was Aaron to her now, and the two of them had everything in common.
Or at least it seemed that way.
Jamie turned a corner and saw the old cemetery. It was clean now, free of the ash and debris that had gathered around the tombstones and remained there for months after the attacks. The island of Manhattan was a different place since that terrible Tuesday morning, more vulnerable, less cocksure. But warmer too. Stronger. For most of America, time might’ve dimmed the horror of what happened to New York City when the Twin Towers fell. But those who were there would always remember. The connection it gave Manhattan residents was undeniable.