On September 11, 2001, I dropped my oldest son off for his first day of kindergarten and came home to find out that two family members who lived in NYC had nearly been in the tragedy three times over.
It was nearly a year later when I finally had a chance to process this – my husband took our three very young children overnight and I went away by myself to a small cottage. After a good sleep and a good cry, some walks and some reading, I sat down the next morning, intending to do a bit of writing for our church – a little Christmas play about the various characters of the Christmas story – and a boy fascinated by stars walked into my mind.
I wrote non-stop for four hours and when I heard a horn honk and saw my kids tumble out of the car to pick me up, I realized I had only scratched the surface. I was almost superstitious about the story, fearing if I talked about it, it might spill away, but I wrote it over the next year in the evenings and occasional afternoons.