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I've been counting down the weeks and days since August 11, when I began inadvertently writing 9/11/02 on checks and in my little black schedule book. It took me until August 14 (aka 9/14 in my book) to realize what I was doing, and I was a bit shaken. I knew why I was doing it. Like most people, I am anxiously anticipating the anniversary of that horrendous event.

The events of September 11, 2001 were so cataclysmic that I don't even have to define it further here. You know what I mean already.

Like everyone, our family has a personal tale to tell about that day. Is ours any more important than anyone else's? To us, yes, but that's about it. So, without great detail, I'll just say that on the morning of 9/11 (a date so familiar to all that there's no need to state the year), my two-year-old son had just spent his first night away from his parents. He was unconscious, lying in a pediatric intensive care unit following a 12-hour surgery to reconstruct his right foot which had, a month earlier, been shattered by a falling garage door. Unfortunately for us, his father and I watched our television in horrified silence as a plane plowed through a populated building in New York City. At that moment, not knowing whether this was just the first of a possible series of attacks on our country's locales of great importance, I feared for my son's life as he lay in one of the world's preeminent children's hospitals near the center of the undisputed capital of petroleum-based energy.

My overwrought body couldn't move fast enough to calm my terrified mind. We arrived at the hospital where security was heightened, and there laid my slumbering son, tubes, wires, and all. In the PICU waiting room where families gathered in limbo as their children teetered in various states between life and death, the television droned the horror on and on and on. I recall it now as the most difficult and lengthy day of my life.

In the end, my son was fully recuperated. Whether or not I have remains to be seen.

So, as we come to a year from that day we want to wish away, I feel jittery, jumpy, and unfocused. I have tried to calm myself by finally writing about the abundance of emotions brought forth from that day. Some of the work that I do feels even more trivial and mundane than before, and I find it hard to set forth on those tasks. Something in me wants to do something, anything, of very great importance that will spin heads around so that people will all sigh together a deafening "aHA!" and we all move forward in a different, life-preserving direction.

Then, it came to me as I jotted yet another note in my little black schedule book. September 11 is Snack Day.

Like lots of preschools, my son's requires that parents share in the chore of providing morning snack for the entire class. When I first looked at the calendar for my allotted date, I only noticed my son's name was written twice, two weeks apart. But when I jotted the words (in all caps, so I would not forget) SNACK DAY in my schedule, I saw that the first day for which I was chosen to provide nutritious, energy-sustaining goodies for my son and his buddies was none other than 9/11, albeit 2002.

Silly as it sounds, I was at first irritated, miffed that of all dates, that was my assigned snack day. I complained to my sister, whose ear was just near enough to receive my initial reaction. "What if I wanted to just take that day off?" I whined. "I can't even believe that they're having school that day..." My sister quietly reminded me that people still have to work, implying that my own neurotic desire to retreat has nothing to do with the need for the school to remain open.

I wasn't so perturbed as to let the emotions keep rolling, so I instead attuned to my food choice. Still, I couldn't get away from the sense that something could be learned from the seemingly coincidental connection of 9/11 and Snack Day.

The vague feelings that I stored on my mind's backburner remained simmering until they suddenly came to a full boil this morning. Snack Day is inherently much more than just a school's way of sharing costs. Snack Day is full of meaning about unseen realities that we all wish our children to understand.

Snack Day means:

• We each must do our part to help preserve a sense of community. There are times when doing our part is inconvenient or difficult for us; still, our part must be accomplished.
• Sharing what we have, no matter how little, is essential to survival of the group and, even, ourselves.
• Forethought and planning are what give many actions their most important meanings.

Naturally, the school likes to remind parents that Snack Day is a time to consider the importance of nutrition education, too. I suspect that nutritionists around the world could rightfully have a field day discussing the socioemotional ramifications of that aspect.

Finally, I remembered today a discussion I had almost 15 years ago with one of my social work mentors. Sharon Jorgeson came from New Orleans, a place with a considerable reputation for demonstrating hospitality and grace through food. We were planning our agency's open houses, where we would invite folks to come and learn about becoming foster parents.

As many can attest, just thinking about caring for others' children, especially those who've been neglected or abused, can bring a lump to one's throat. Convincing people to consider it is no easy feat. So while these meetings in some ways provided we workers with time for initial screening of interested applicants, the real focus was on helping the potential parents feel comfortable. We tried several ways to accomplish this -- work-friendly scheduling of meetings, sitting in cushioned couches set in a conversational round instead of creating a lecture atmosphere with folding chairs, homey-sounding press releases that avoided identifying foster parents as extraordinary individuals.

Sharon introduced the idea of providing food.

In her typically warm and friendly way, she described fond remembrances of past encounters with refreshments. Not only could she detail essential ingredients in delectable dishes, she told us in her gentle but forthright manner that "Food is comfort."

To Sharon, providing food to people, and especially to those whom you do not already know, is a way of showing, if not love, at least compassion. It is a sign of caring. Offering something to eat demonstrates that the giver has at least a basic understanding of the common bonds shared by all people.

It is a way of offering peace.

Once again, Life laughs kindly at my neurosis while educating me on its expanding nature. Like all else, it's not a question of "why me?" but of "why not?" It's not about my personal tale of that day. It's about what we all, even those we perceive as strangers on the other side, have in common.

It's about teaching children how to make peace.

So, now, the only question remaining is what food to bring, what dish to share, what munchies will offer a sense of peace to 13 preschoolers and kindergartners? I search now for a combination of tastes that will appeal to all and will be both nourishing and uplifting at the same time.

Peaceful Snack Day to you all.