Today is September 11, 2011, ten years after terrorists struck the Twin Towers in New York City, later to be known as "Ground Zero." On the show I look forward to each weekend "Sunday Morning," there were not the usual news, entertainment and life-interest features and stories, but the entire show was devoted to all who gave their life on that horrendous day, September 11, 2001. Each victim's name was read by family and friends, which brought tears to my eyes. Everyone's name was etched in bronze plates around a beautiful, peaceful flow of water. Relatives and friends placed flowers, flags and stuffed animals by the names of the fallen. It was beautiful and, at the same time, sad.

Several moments of silence were held for each occurrence:

9:03 a.m. U. A. Flight. 175 strikes the South Tower 9:37 a.m. A. A. Flight. 77 strikes the Pentagon 9:59 a.m. South Tower Falls 10:03 a.m. Crash near Shanksville, PA

In between the silences, musicians and singers sang and played songs in tribute:

YoYo Ma played "Sarabande" on the Cello. James Taylor sang and played guitar to "Close your Eyes." Emi Ferguson played "Amazing Grace" on the Flute.

Then after the final silent moment at 10:12 a.m., which was the time the last plane struck the North Tower, Paul Simon appropriately sang and played guitar to "The Sounds of Silence." Then the continuance of the over 3,000 names would be read until 1:00 pm.

I went to the Salvation Army Citadel for Sunday morning services. The first song played was the "Star Spangled Banner." We stood in silence during our National Anthem and then together prayed "The Lords Prayer," the prayer I've said so many, many times when in despair.

One thing we know, God is always by our side and terrorists' threats and destruction can never take that away from us. His son Jesus died for our sins and He did this so that we, as God's children, could carry on His Work to drive away hate, destruction, terror or anything else meant to disrupt God's Kingdom on earth.

Again, we stood in silent prayer before leaving to a sunshiny, warm, inviting day in the U.S.A.

After church and lunch, my son Scott and I went for a walk. This time we didn't have out little friend Dusty Dugan, the trouble maker, who was our mixed breed pup we found and had for almost 16 years. The sky was glorious, the prettiest blue with fluffy white clouds. There were planes flying in the air, and as we walked by the park, we heard cheers and laughter from a football game. The silence of the day ten years ago was gone.

As we walked along we approached a man walking with a spunky, happy, new puppy. The puppy anxiously approached us wanting to jump and play and be acknowledged. Our Dusty was gone like the event of the terrorists ten years ago, but here was this happy pup a symbol of new life, joy, and a future to carry on with God by our side.

It was reported that three terrorists had entered the U.S.A., planning to repeat an act of terror to commemorate 9/11, but thankfully, so far, nothing has happened.

The theme for our church service message was "We Remember," and we do remember, but we must not wallow in tears and sadness, but must also remember that God is by our side and with Him we gain strength and forgiveness. We must try "to be like Jesus," not just worship, but be an example of Him for Him. With Jesus as our armor, we will not be overcome by "fear," as "fear will mean the terrorists won. God Bless the U.S.A.!

Grandpa, did you ever think I would come looking for you,
        or least somebody like me?
Did you ever think that I would find you?
Did you think about your children's children?
I wonder, is that why you came to America?

Would you have ever guessed that you would have
        22 grandchildren?
And there would be 38 great grandchildren
And more great great grandchildren than
        I can count?

But they didn't all survive
        And some have their names etched on war memorials.
Your blood flows through all of us,
        we who survive carry you into the future.

But even though I've found you, you are a stranger to me.
All your children have passed on so I can't ask questions.
I am the only grandchild left
I have no one to tell me stories.

I don't know if you truly loved my grandmother.
I don't know if you bounced your babies on your knee.
I don't know how you felt when you saw Lady Liberty.
I'll never know what you liked to do or if you loved music.

We'll always be strangers but I'm glad I found you.
I can go to your grave and place flowers there.
I can say a prayer or talk to you.
Rest in peace Grandpa.

There was a sharp rap on the door and I got up from the couch to answer. "Yes?" I said through the door, but there was no answer. The pounding continued. "What do you want?" I asked louder and very annoyed. Again nothing was said, just wretched pounding.

Peeking through the curtain, the creature looked to be very old, all slumped over with withered out-stretched fingers and with a twisted, gnarly face. LIke the raven, it was clothed from head to toe in black. It carried a fire-scorched cauldron and I could faintly hear mutterings of "boil and bubble, toil and trouble," coming from its lips. Flames of different hues of red, orange and magenta shot out of the pot and soared high before being squashed by the moonless black of the night.

Opening the door just a crack, but keeping my foot against the bottom I said, "Stop that pounding. Tell me what it is that you want." It looked up at me, but I couldn't see its eyes, only blank, deep, mesmerizing black boles. A finger extended out from under its sleeve, pointing directly at me and once under its spell I opened the door and bade the creature into my home.

As an unearthly creature might, it seemed to float rather than walk as on human feet. Once in, it turned in all directions, seeking I know not what. A twisted finger came out from under the sleeve and pointed to its desire. "Sure," I said, nodding a yes. "Please take as much as you want." And I backed away from the ugly creature.

The hand reached in and took what it wanted and then stuffed it into the flaming cauldron. Turning, the creature said, "Trick or Treat, Mrs. L.," and then floated out the door, leaving in its wake only its spirited waves. "You're welcome, Morgan," I said, closing the door and waiting for the next eerie knock this Halloween Night.

My thoughts go back to my mother, many years ago. She was a widow for thirty three years; legally blind. Her home was with my brother Arthur and his wife Rita. She usually would stay a few days through the week with me. We all knew mom had a fixed routine. She would get out of bed (I say this because she would stay in bed and listen to the morning news) about eight o'clock. Take her shower, brush her teeth and put on her clean cotton house coat. She would then go into her room and close the door and say her morning devotions. She would make her toast, get her orange juice and pour her coffee, using her finger at the top of the coffee cup to make sure it did not spill over. My sister-in-law Rita, would be waiting for her and have her second cup of coffee with her. We all knew that if something happened to change her routine, her whole day would be upset. I do believe she would wait for the next day so that she could go through her regular routine and have her perfect day. Why am I telling you all this, because I have become a creature of habit.

My routine is pretty much like my mom's, except in place of saying devotions I have my little black prayer book which is always on the edge of my kitchen table. I will have my coffee, banana and toast. I then read from my prayer book. On this particular morning, I went to reach for it, looked up and saw it was not there. My little prayer book of thirty five years was not there! I looked under the table, on the kitchen chairs and on the counter, no prayer book. I then went back mentally. When did I last see it? I remember, I had placed it on the chair with the morning Tribune and taken the papers to the recycling bin. I realized there was no use of going to check the bin; the truck had emptied it at eight o'clock. My little prayer book was gone. I could not accept the fact that it was gone. I kept looking for it in the car, under the car seats, in the trunk. Please Lord, I really need my little prayer book .Then it happened, one day as we got into the car, my husband and I, I stepped on something. I looked down and there was my little black prayer book. I do not know how it got there, for as far as I knew I had tossed it into the recycling bin.

However, I do often wonder where did my little black prayer book go for about six weeks.

I was a veritable stranger, another person in my own body whom I knew little about. I had the good fortune to meet up with Dr. Chester Bowles, the eminent psychoanalyst. Dr. Bowles got right to work upon our first encounter. He began by having me introduce myself.

"Hi, me."

"Hello, you."

One hand shook the other. Things seemed to be going quite well. I introduced myself to the stranger, and we got to talking. We both had the same name. I thought that very odd, indeed, especially on account of my name is not very common. Ezekiel Stuffaguppy, that's our name. I once checked every resource I could find in search of other Stuffiguppys, but there weren't any to be found except for a few close relatives, all of whom have left us to go to the other world beyond.

Ezekiel Stuffaguppy and I had some very frank discussions about our hobbies, dreams, and what so for. It turns out that we have a lot in common, and I'm beginning to like this fellow Stuffaguppy. You might almost say Ezekiel Stuffaguppy is no longer a stranger. Many thanks to Dr. Bowles. Unfortunately, of course, because the subject of this writing is supposed to be about a stranger, what had been a stranger is known to me almost as well as myself now, so the story will have to come to a rather abrupt end.

In the event that the former stranger Ezekiel Stuffaguppy commences to embark on strange behaviors, of course, I might have reason to keep going with this document.