After spending much of November 22, 1963 in the Tabor College library working on some long-forgotten term paper, I went to my freshman Psychology class.   The professor walked in, looking very sad, and asked if anyone had something urgent that needed to be addressed immediately. “Otherwise,” he continued, “in view of what happened today, I just don’t feel like teaching.”  When nobody said anything, he picked up his papers and walked out.  Stunned, I turned to another student and asked what had happened.  He told me that President Kennedy had been shot.  When I asked if the President was going to be okay, my colleague responded, “No, Kennedy is dead.” It felt like the whole world had stopped.  It