When I arrived in America in February of 2001 from India, I had just $50, two suitcases and countless dreams. A few months later, my wife and I both found jobs at the World Trade Center and our first child was on the way. I should have felt pride, but instead, I felt an emptiness that something was missing in my life.
As a Christian, I knew God, but yet I could not find His purpose for me. Along the way, I confused temporary success with my calling. All that would change on Sept. 11, 2001. Before I started work on the 81st floor of the North Tower, I sent an email to a friend letting him know that while my life in America had taken off, I was still searching for something deeper.
A fire had begun to burn within me to aim for a life of significance rather than continue settling for the ordinary and mundane, but how would I start? I ended the email by asking him to pray that the Lord would show me the path to finding His purpose for me. Within the hour, a tremendous explosion reverberated around me.
As our building shook violently, our manager hastened us toward the stairwell, where thousands of others were fleeing. The fear of death was written on most faces, and panic struck as I realized my pregnant wife would have been at her office on the South Tower’s 71st floor. I frantically tried to reach her, but mobile phones weren’t working.
As we finally made it down to the concourse level, I tried not to look at the dead bodies as I rushed by on my way toward the South Tower to find my wife. That was when I heard another explosion, glass shattering around me. The