The author is Carol Holmes, a skilled editor down in New York City. A fellow Quaker, she’s a bright, self-possessed woman always dressed with simple professional elegance. Carol is also very witty, and I look forward to times when she regales us with stories of city life. She knows how to make people laugh.

But the story that follows reveals the other Carol, her quiet depth. It is about her Monday, Sept. 11, when NYC was in grieved commemoration of the terrorist nightmare. Here is her account, sent to me late that day.

"It’s been a complicated weekend. Yesterday was not a Sabbath for me, since I paidáone of my regularápastoral visits to Stamford-Greenwich Meeting in Connecticut ... And when I got home I talked long into the night with a friend about next weekend’s Ministry of Presence workshop that I’m leading at Powell House. So I ended up entering the fifth anniversary of our New York City piece of the national trauma sleep deprived and wrung out.

"I finished some editorial work this morning and headed out for Meeting for Worship at Brooklyn and I thought I was fine. It was about 1 p.m. and as I reached Second Avenue and looked up at the sky that was exactly the same shade of blue it had been five years ago, all I could think of was the smoke_those beautiful, billowing clouds of white smoke_filling the southwest corner of the sky; and I was fighting tears before I knew it. But as I fought them and continued to walk with all my New York briskness to the subway, it seemed to me that almost all the people I passed were fighting tears too.

"It was very quietáon theáNew York City streetsátoday.

"On the subway, I had reading to do. I settled down into it, happy to be distracted. And then I received what felt like a message, a sermon in three dimensions.

At Fulton Street, about eight developmentally disabled adolescent guys got in. They were severely impaired. One clutching his lunchbox to his cheek.

Another rocking when he sat down. They were anxious, unhappy, I can only assume, at the noise and the crowds. And they were being taken care of by a man I could easily have been wary of myself in other circumstances.

"He was a huge rock and mountain of a man_at least 6’5" and burly. And he was tending one fellow in particular.

Held him by the hand. Led him into one of those fold-up single seats by the door. Lowered the seat and settled him into it.

And as the train started to move, he made choo-choo sounds for the young man, as though to reassure him nonverbally that the train was okay and he was okay. And all the while he was doing this he was also watching and counting the other young fellows.

"He was a good shepherd.

"I exchanged a few words with the man. Told him quickly about a friend’s work upstate, running a drug and alcoholárehab for developmentally disabled men who were trying to stay sober with IQs of 50. �I thought they were heroes!’ I told him, and my eyes were filling up again.

"The man smiled at me and nodded and said, �I love every one of my guys.’

"And then we were at Borough Hall and he had to turn back to his shepherding to get them off the train, while I ran up the stairs to Meeting for Worship.

"It opened to me there in the silence that we are all developmentally disabled in the eyes of God. And God is like that rock and mountain of a man, leading us onto the train, getting us settled into that overwhelmingly complicated seat, and making choo-choo sounds for us as the train moves.

"We’ll never know and see all that God knows and sees.We clutch our lunchboxes to our cheeks. We rock back and forth when we’re scared, and we’re scared most of the time. We don’t understand the noise and the lights.áAnd God loves every one of us.

"I left worship feeling cleaner. And that surprised me, because I didn’t know I’d been dirty. But whatever grime it was that had gotten onto me was gone. I’ve never had that experience before. Am I new-baptized?

"Well, dear friends (met and unmet), let us take care of one another as best we can.

"I understand there was quite a piece in the Times today about post-traumatic stress disorder among New Yorkers. I’m a bit wobbly, but all in all I’m doing OK. Although I have been watching airplanes a lot these past five years."

The email ended by quoting the Bible’s King James translation; it was Psalm 31. "Blessed be the Lord: for he hath shewed me his marvelous kindness in a strong city."

Ages ago, mystics urged that we closely watch the material world for "correspondences," for things and events which imply the great reality, the one towering above the limits of our senses and minds. On that swaying, jouncing, squealing subway car, and then in prayerful silence, Carol spotted one. She was given a gift, and not just for herself. For us all.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek. Learn about his book at JimAtwell.com.