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It was the middle of the night, and I'd been sleepless in an under padded sleeping bag on thinly carpeted church floor. And it wasn't even a new church, it was an older, very old in fact Gothic style church in NYC. The cool drafts blew in and out and the belfry each midnight like the earth was letting out the breath she had been holding onto for months. Tomorrow I would face the demons, but for a few more hours I'd pretend to cling to my immaturity and ignorance as I stuffed my pockets with massive amounts to tissue and cried for what I was about to experience first hand.
In the middle of May 2002, I sat in the tower and thought about life and death and meaning and purpose and contemplated a God who let this happen. I watched with blurred vision each night as two huge blue beams shot into the heavens as ghostly reminders of that which once was.
The morning of September 11th 2001, my life didn't change. I was beyond horrified, scared and stunned like the rest of the world, but I didn't lose anyone, I didn't call searching for loved one, I didn't even know anyone in NYC and only one friend was in DC, fairly far from the Pentagon. I basically watched the news round the clock and waited...numb and speechless and waited more...for...something. I guess we were all waiting for...answers, for potential more attacks, for good news, for the unexpected tension that filled each exaggerated lung in America to ease and relax and know that we'd all be okay.
Things never did ease. At least I don't think they did. Its hard to remember. Less than 5 weeks later my Step- father passed away completely unexpectedly. My life narrowed, and my eyes and mind only thought of my family, of brain tumors and of how life might now go on.
After months of recovery and some small healing, I emerged from a delicate cocoon and slowly waded in the shallow ends of life post 9/11. As the opportunity arose I hesitantly stepped to the plate to join a team of 12 other APU students to spend a summer in NYC and DC learning, helping, and healing cities who suffered greatly 9 months earlier. Completely unaware of what I was really getting myself into, I tried so hard to shed the layers of cement I had crafted around myself. I wanted to feel again and I wanted to understand again. I wanted to empathize and I wanted so badly to feel like I could be significant to the disaster.
A full day of paperwork, background checks, and training at the Red Cross NYC, I donned a red lanyard which granted me full access to Ground Zero. Having not even seen the site other than on TV I would be face to face with gaping hole of hell in the morning. But sleep eluded me, as it does most nights before a monumental even in my life. That day would be monumental.
I suppose I wasn't shocked when we were given aprons and hair nets, but I wasn't completely expecting it either. As we entered the massive white tents on the north side of the Ground Zero passing through 2 sets of security and hundreds of volunteers with clipboards, walkie talkies and hard hats, we entered the mess hall. A serving buffet lined the back walls and dozens of round tables with folding chairs filled the remainder of the tent. There were only two ways in and out, one being the way we came in- from a heavily guarded and banned off street, and the other another heavily guarded ally looking street which was barracked and lead to the lifts which lowered you into "the pile".
Our job was to make, serve, and feed the hungry souls of the men and women who were cleaning out the pit. Most were firefighters and police officers. Some were construction workers, a few doctors and government officials. All were from all over the country, all over the world in fact. It was a true human melting pot of bitterness, sorrow, blood, sweat and a tiny glimmer of hope in their eyes.
Some passed in the lines and actaully thanked us for helping, for serving them. A knot forms in my throat just thinking about the humility they bestowed upon us. It should have been the other way around. And at times it was. We thanked and smiled at each passing face. Each one marked with exhaustion, dust encased their wrinkles and beards, and it was not uncommon for them to use their napkins to wipe the tears away as they tried not to look at you directly in the face when asking for more mash potatoes.
3 days. We spent 3 days at Ground Zero. It felt like 3 months. At times when the food lines were slow or empty we were encouraged to go talk to the men and women sitting at the tables. Ask if they needed to talk. Ask if they needed prayer. Ask if we could lead them to the sleeping quarters or get them a cup of coffee. Most of the time, they just wanted to balance on their heels squatting in the ally way, still closed off to the public and smoke a cigarette and stare at the blue sky that wasn't littered with particles of dust and bone.
Twice I had the honor to pray with two different firefighters. It was a odd thing. Me and my massive volunteering co-ed pride got a brutal humbling wake up call when I asked God who was I that in my infancy as a believer in His infinite power to pray for these grown men who were warriors in every sense of the word, fighting a war of darkness and hot mangled metal and fighting for the hope of finding bodies just to ease the minds of the thousands of friends, husbands, wives, sons and daughters? Who was I to even come close to understanding what I could possibly even pray for in a moment like that? Who was I to have any comprehension of why this was and why these people died and why these men had the unimaginable task of cleaning it all up? What words could I offer to comfort them? What lame attempt would I make to understand God and His working? I felt like nothing. Because, I was nothing. In the grand scheme of things, I was so small and so helpless and fruitless to enrich anyone’s life with my prayers, and that was humbling. For the first time ever- I really truly trusted God for provision. I was humbled and broken and astonished in my realization that alone I was incomplete and nothing. With God I was whole and empowered. And as if I thought walking in that white tent I would be giving something- those moments right there- I gave nothing and received everything.
As we said goodbye the after the last dinner we served on the 3rd day, a few of us walked around the entire blockade of what was Ground Zero. We walked to the edge of the platform which hovered into the gaping hole and slowly took in the sensory overload. before even making it to the end where we would stare hate in the face, the plywood boards encasing the plank were etched in memories, prayers of every kind of faith, missing person posters, phone numbers, and remembrance. Random mourners had sharpied the heck out of the wood. With barely enough room to sign a name, we took a few moments to sign and write on the boards. It was unbearable to read most of what was up there. It felt intrusive and too private to be read by someone who didn't lose that day, but the grief overtook me and undid me simultaneously as I looked out over the pit of Ground Zero, what was the World Trade Center Twin Towers, the white and yellow lights which temporarily hung over the hole for the 24 hour clean up crews blurred into brilliant shinning stars whose points stretched to infinity and melted together to form brightness over something so dark. I didn't want to tears to stop for fear of seeing the true ugliness that lay before me.
Not an inch of sidewalk, gutter, building, fence, plywood, car or truck that was bordering Ground Zero remained unmarked. Cards, posters, flowers and flowers and endless amounts of dried, molding, and fresh flowers marked the outline as if to purify it from the outside in. The church on Church Street marked a temporary monument as well as relief center that we collapsed into. Nothing I've ever seen in person, or on TV can ever compare to the overflow of expression I witnessed that night. Nine months after. Nine months. The smoke was still rising, the metal was still piercing the sky. The dust still surrounded the tip of Manhattan like a massive evil storm cloud.
That night we stumbled upon the Cross At Ground Zero. We learned the story and we prayed. We found a sailor who was visiting the cross while attending fleet week who also prayed with us. We took this picture and although we are all wearing smiles, it was a bittersweet moment after days of pure exhilaration, exhaustion and the slow mend of healing our hearts and finding a nation of Americans doing the same.
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