Beyond Belief by Cami Ostman

at Trautmann Square. The sun is shining. The air is still. A smattering of our fellow students is gathered there with us, spread out along the cobblestone walkways bordering the square. Sheets of paper with prayers and songs are being passed around. Someone is playing bagpipes; their mournful crooning weaves its way through the spaces surrounding us. The swirling sounds diminish and a priestly voice is asking us to honor the fallen with a moment of silence. The speaker quotes the words of a well-known scripture: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . ” I look around me. Most people are holding their handouts, focusing intently on following the words printed on the papers as they are read aloud. Others are simply staring into space, their eyes glazed over. Some are crying and holding one another; still others are talking in hushed voices. I am soundlessly absorbing all I see and hear, feeling frozen and powerless, longing with increasing intensity for God to show me my role in the midst of this chaos.
    The crowd begins to sing. I am struck by the earnestness in two female voices emanating from my right. I edge my way closer to them. The woman nearest to me notices and moves in my direction, holding out her copy of the hymns so I can sing along. I gratefully accept.
    When the song is over, the priest clears his throat. “I’m sorry to be the one to break this news, but I’ve just received word that the second tower has fallen. Let us once again take a moment of silence to honor the lives of those lost in this tragic event.”
    Murmuring voices and shuffling feet. Then, silence.
    The vigil comes to a close, but I don’t want to leave. Students are commingling and milling about, and I can’t shake the feeling of wanting to do something. “We’re going back. You coming with?” Amber asks.
    “No, no. Go ahead without me,” I respond, determined to make myself useful.
    I watch my friends walk away, and then turn to face the women standing next to me whose voices were so stirring. One is young and pretty, with straight brown hair and clear blue eyes: big and bright, warm and inviting. “Wow, this is something, isn’t it?” she says.
    I’m half shaking and half nodding my head. “Yeah, sure is . . . ” I recognize her as someone I’ve seen around campus. Her eyes, luminous and sparkling, are not easy to forget.
    She smiles at me with a smile that lights up her whole face, takes my hand in hers, and says, “I’m Sandra.”
    “And I’m Sofia,” says the other woman, the one who shared her handout with me. She’s petite, with a somewhat unsettling intensity flashing in her eyes and tight black spiral curls falling wildly about her face; she speaks with a strong accent that sounds Latin American to my sheltered suburbanite ears.
    “Elise,” I smile, too warmed by their presence to be intimidated.
    Sofia’s gaze softens a bit. “You know, we’re a part of this really great church, the Church of Christ, and we’re having a service tonight if you want to come along.”
    “Really? I’d love to!” I exclaim. Maybe this is God’s answer to me! Unable to hide my enthusiasm, I almost reach out to hug them, but stop short.
    Sophia laughs. “Well, good. It’s not too far from here, but do you need a ride? I’ll be on campus all day so you can just come with me.”
    “Sounds like a plan,” I say. I feel so sure God has led me straight to these women, I impulsively spew out my story of summertime salvation-seeking and of last night’s brokenness, how I was up for hours begging to find the way, the truth, and the life, and how meeting them isn’t just a coincidence; it’s an answered prayer!
    “I just wish there was something I could do, ” I say at the end of my sudden burst of chatter.
    As if on cue, a voice rises from across the square. A man is holding a megaphone on the steps of the Student Union. “For those of you who are wanting to help, I just spoke with the American