Friday, September 14, 2001
Late Morning
Dennis and I are sitting in the waiting area of Penn Station along with thousands of others. Now that the trains are working, everyone is trying to leave. The traffic on the way here was true to New York’s style, except no one was honking. No one was yelling. A sense of politeness has settled in with the dust. And even though people are talking, there is a silence between the words. We look at one another with new eyes. We’re all connected somehow by this tragedy. We’re related, almost.
I asked one of the station attendants a question and he was actually nice to me. Last year, during Christmas, when I was here, it was a totally different story. I asked a question and the man–a different man–bit my head off. An observer remarked, “Welcome to New York.” Yes, they’re known for this lack of tolerance toward someone unfamiliar with the city. The past Christmas season hadn’t been enough to place even a speck of kindness in that Scrooge. But the events of 9-11 had changed things somehow.
Just a few moments ago, someone from way off to the left “yoo-hooed.” Waves of applause began, and as I turned to look at what was happening, I noticed the people sitting in this massive waiting area and beyond to the gates and tunnels and food court begin to rise.
And then I saw it, too. Men, dressed in heavy suits of black, trimmed in yellow, carrying hard hats, parading through the crowds. They were tired, dusty, dirty. They shouldered a burden unlike anything any of us trying to escape could even fathom. Those of us praising them with our claps and tears were leaving New York City. These rescue workers could not. They are here for the long haul. They would continue to do what they could in spite of the fact that most hope of finding survivors has evaporated . . . or settled with the ash that covered the city and now covers them.
When they had disappeared down the escalator leading to the trains, we spectators returned to our seats, wiped the moisture away from our cheeks. Adult men and women, unashamed of raw emotions, moved by the sight of weary laborers.
Saturday, September 15, 2001
Early Afternoon
We’re on our way home now. Our time in the Albany airport held new experiences. No one was allowed to come inside with us. We’d see ourselves to the gate. Our luggage was checked out thoroughly. We walked in silence through nearly empty corridors. During lunch in a sparsely populated restaurant, we watched the funeral of the NYFD’s chaplain on the large screen TV. A man loved by so many, performing last rights over an officer who had been killed by a falling body, taken suddenly by the collapsed building. Several men of the department found his body, carried it respectfully to a nearby church, walked up the aisle toward the altar where they placed him gently before his Lord, trusting Him to keep the body of their beloved priest and friend safe until they could return.
Everyone in the restaurant ate–though just barely–in quiet reverence.
Dennis and I walked to our gate, sat in silence with the others. Everyone was patient with their fellow travelers. We took deep breaths as the plane pulled away from the gate . . . taxied down the runway . . . turned upward toward the skies.
I turned my head to the left and gazed out of the small window onto the land below. There she was: New York City, veiled like a jilted bride in a shroud of torn smoke. At the south end of Manhattan, a relentless trail of smoke rose from where those twin towers had once been. The gaping hole reminded me of an extracted tooth. Only this time, there was no preparation, there wasn’t any Novocain.
I closed my eyes and focused on what lay ahead. As soon as I return home, I have to unpack and repack. Tomorrow, I leave for a book and speaking tour. I’ll be gone for nine days. Fifteen days by the time this is all over. For now, I will concentrate on this, for this is what I’ve been called to do . . .
Tuesday, September 25, 2001
Two Weeks After the Murders
Two Thursday nights ago, having returned from Times Square, I began to cough. It wasn’t bad at first, but as the days wore on and I told my story of what it was like to have been in New York City during our country’s worst nightmare and how it all relates to God and country, the coughing became worse.
Of course I know why I am coughing. I inhaled debris while there. I didn’t think about it at the time. You just breathe in, breathe out. Naturally. Now, as I have finally returned to my home, I do think about it. I think of the things incinerated by the explosions. Desks. Files. Office machines. Plaster. Wood. Glass. Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, best friends, nieces, nephews, husbands, wives, aunts, uncles, best friends. Grandmothers. Grandfathers. Grandchildren. Children.
And I realize . . . I inhaled all this. I inhaled history. I inhaled the best of what is now gone. Vanished, but not forgotten. Though it sounds morose, I think about them–those men and women who never even had a second to think about what happened. Never to reflect on the horror, yet a part of it. One moment, sitting at their desks, pouring coffee in the break room, sending a fax, receiving an email, beginning a conference call. The next moment, gone in a flash that elevated to nearly 2000 degrees Fahrenheit.
They are inside me, in a way. And I don’t just mean in my lungs. I mean in my heart. I walked toward them. I took them in, and I’ve given them a voice. Please, try to hear what they are saying!
As I returned home . . . as I drove into my neighborhood . . . I noticed something new. American flags, hanging in front of nearly every home. I smiled a sad sort of smile. Yes, before September 11, 2001, we were living in the same country and those of us in this multicultural neighborhood of various religious ideas and beliefs called ourselves “American.”
But now we are American. We understand what those stars and stripes stand for and we are ready and willing to learn any of the new lessons to be taught within the coming months. Or perhaps, years. Because we are American.
We are America.
You told the story so well. Thank you! My gut was tight during the reading of this and I can’t imagine how you felt with the writing of this.
Hugs!
“We are America.” Yes. Thank you for your personal and solemn account. Lest we forget …