ummer 2000. The streets of Manhattan, New York. I was there with my husband and a couple of his relatives visiting from Brazil. After posing with Lady Liberty for a few shots, we climbed aboard our water transport and cruised across the bay.

We stepped off the ferry from Ellis Island and were trying to get our bearings in Battery Park. We stood amid a busy crowd of people elbowing by us. I clutched the foldout, pop-up map of the city and peered at street signs. Finally I pointed in a direction and we started out, crossing a cab-filled intersection of blaring car horns and shouts. Even though it was our turn at the crosswalk I fairly ran across the street, afraid that the light would change and we'd be mowed down. These were people on the move, in a hurry. I wondered, for not the first time, why I had agreed to go with my husband and family on this trip to the Big Apple. I had been to the city before and knew it to be a rough and rude place-from the waiters in restaurants to the cabbies, from the subway attendants to people walking on the streets, New York was a crowded, bustling metropolis filled with harried and harassed individuals who did not even attempt to hide their acerbic impatience.

Somehow we found our way to the World Trade Center. The two towers climbed high into the sunny sky. Below them were covered, raised pathways between buildings, friendly stone fountains, benches, and flags from around the world. This area of New York was bustling too. And even though the sun was dutifully lighting the noon sky, only slices of it streaked in, most of the beams blocked by the tall buildings.

We walked from building to building and snapped photos. I lay on my back on the cement and shot a picture straight up the side of one of the towers. Later we made our way around the sidewalk vendors and headed to Chinatown for lunch.

Big and busy-alive-that's what I remembered long after we departed the city.

My visit in March 2002 was very different.

The trip started out with the same ferry ride to Battery Park. I didn't need a map to find the World Trade Center, yet as we approached the area I frowned. Nothing looked as it had. Then it hit me hard. We were nearing ground zero.

We walked down the street toward the site. The buildings around us were closed. Jagged cracks lacerated the windowed side of one edifice. Broken bricks crumbled on the foundations of others. The dense crowd moved slowly down to the cordoned-off avenue. As we got closer to the huge hole I felt a chill that seemed to rise from below and snake around my ankles and knees. The air was damp, with the softly pungent smell of uncovered earth. We all drew closer and stopped. No one spoke. Some cried. Others shook their heads. We stood there, grieving-surveying the wreckage, watching the yellow Caterpillar move rubble, viewing the torn flag that waved in the breeze from its perch on a neighboring building.

The earthen scent and moist air were thick as we stood on the edge of the devastation. On approach, I had thought the smell would sicken. It did not. Indeed, the humid air and dirt scent made me think of life, regrowth. Change. Renewal. The grief was still there, but so was promise.

I glanced up to the sky and noticed that the sun shone brilliantly into the corridor. It warmed us and seemed a healing balm to our saddened, loss-drenched souls. Its light, actually able to reach into the city, was a change too. My group journeyed on to our next stop, walking with the slowly moving mass of people. No one bumped each other out of the way in a hurry. Courteous New Yorkers offered greetings to people-smiles, hellos, waves-and mumbled sincere apologies as they dashed past visitors. They were still bustling with crowded schedules and lives. But something had changed. Subway attendants answered questions warmly, service in restaurants was above reproach. Yes, things had changed. The towers were gone, but a bittersweet "humanness" had arrived. Yes, things had changed.

When things change, we must change too. Subtly or dramatically. For better or worse. We must change-we will change-or be swept under the rubble. I'm going back to New York this month. I wonder what I will experience. What will the next visit bring?

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Kimberly Luste Maran is the assistant editor of the Adventist Review.