From the seventh floor of the midtown crisis pregnancy center where I volunteered, the explosion sounded way too close, and way too familiar–even for those of us who had not been Manhattan residents in September of 2001. But on that day in July 2007, universal protective instincts kicked in and within seconds we found ourselves running down flights of stairs toward the front door, not knowing if we were escaping disaster or heading straight into it.

The mind is a jumble of mostly incoherent thoughts at times like these, but the few ideas that do fully form are captured in singular words: Terrorism. Bomb. Attack. Death. And from the corner of 40th and Park, looking up at a plume of smoke rising in proximity to the Chrysler Building and Grand Central, I wondered if any conclusion drawn from this scene could be too melodramatic. If now was the when, not if that we had been told to expect. Just like everyone else in the crowd, my instinct to run was momentarily stunned into submission by the sight of the rising cloud. Then, a second later, running won out.

But back to the stairwell. We know now that it was a Con-Ed steam explosion, an accident and not calculated maleficence–though you couldn’t have assured my feet of that as they raced down six flights of stairs. And yet, throughout my flight downward and the flurry of anxiety buzzing around me, a peace descended on me that truly passed all understanding. I had no idea what I was headed toward, but I felt protected in a way that transcended the possibility of danger. I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that no matter what happened, I was going to be okay. I wasn’t sure what okay meant or how it looked, but my heart told me I was ultimately safe. I felt kept.

Disaster, chaos, confusion, turbulence, brake lights approaching too fast–danger has a way of distilling everything we believe into one moment. We are reminded of how little we control, and this is either a horrible realization or a great gift. My life didn’t flash before my eyes, but my future did. And it told me, via an undercurrent of abiding and unexplainable peace, that everything I believe in is true.

Fast forward nearly four years, to a day filled with different drama, work and personal issues invading my efforts at serenity and leaving my heart pounding and pits sweating, and I’m wondering if it’s all too much, this constant leap toward anxiety that my body seems to take by default, if it will be harmful beyond what I know, if I’m truly going to be okay. Shocking revelations coming to light, potential bad news traversing a desk and puncturing hope. Then, the car ride home…and that same peace descending on me. The reminder of my ever-present powerlessness, but with it an assurance that I am not as fragile as I think I am; that I am, still and always, kept. Held. For a Type-A anxiety-ridden control freak, this can only be news from an outside source.

If we look to the world for the answers we seek, we will always come up empty. Like Javert, whose universe only extended as far as his judgmental and false morality, and when faced with love and forgiveness beyond what rules prescribed, he lamented:

I am reaching, but I fall
And the stars are black and cold
As I stare into the void
Of a world that cannot hold

It cannot hold, and so he jumped. I cannot look to this world, demanding good news and restoration and peace, and expect it to always deliver. But I know now that I don’t have to. Being held changes everything.