The whole world can shift so suddenly.

One moment you're doing your last-minute primping at the mirror, heading out to meet a friend for breakfast. A couple of videos to return on the way. Grass-trimmer line to buy if the hardware store is open.

And then there's a tense sentence on the radio.

You rush to the television, and a picture flickers on that leaves you staring in disbelief. The ground beneath you bucks and sways like a funhouse floor.

I backed over to a chair, trying to find some stable spot. My mind raced, likewise looking for some level place to land.

Unexpectedly, the words of a favorite old hymn came to mind: This world is not my home. I'm just a'passing through ...

It truly is a bitter day when even the words of a favorite hymn come back with sinister shading.

I wish I had some elixir of soothing words for you today. Never have I felt so attuned to Lincoln's confession on the poor power of words to add or detract from some moments in history.

We have witnessed another of those moments. Perhaps our only pale solace is simply in sharing each other's company.

I was to have met my friend Bob Compton, our retired books editor, for breakfast. We spoke on the phone and agreed that our appetites were gone. Yet half of me wanted to meet anyway, just to bear the tragedy in Bob's steady presence.

Instead, I sat alone at home and watched the shattering events unfold. My urge was to drive the mile to my wife's seventh-grade class and put my arms around those young people. And have my wife put her arms around me.

So many jumbled thoughts rolled through my head:

Usually I have little patience for the empty chatter of TV announcers when they have run out of new information and must simply fill time.

But Tuesday morning, I would have preferred such patter to the unbelievable cascade of new horrors falling before us.

We're so accustomed to seeing special effects in movies that the scenes of disaster all seemed strangely familiar. It took effort for me to persuade my mind that I was truly seeing what I was seeing.

And I felt ashamed that we have used violence so blithely for entertainment. Will this generation ever see Hollywood's air crashes, towering infernos and terrorist plots as quite the same mindless fun?

As I watched in numb, distant horror, I thought of the intense pain that must be searing those with loved ones at the centers of disaster.

And it was sickening to realize that some few somewhere must have been watching it all with glee.

We're a nation at peace! How could others' causes engulf us so? Because the old cliché has never been so bitterly true: "It's a small world."

Ultimately, the only place my mind could settle for long was a favorite snippet of scripture from Micah. Its simplicity always appeals, but especially in times of turmoil.

The passage asks the essential question: "What does the Lord require of us?"

And it answers with elegant economy: "To act justly, to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God."

Yesterday we sure walked humbly, numbly with our God.