Around 2:30 am on Tuesday, January 29, 2002, I rose from the uncomfortable wooden
chair I had been sitting in the past four hours and walked a few steps to a
waist-high aluminum gate. An endless sea of memorials stretched to my right
and left. A constant stream of people passed by, each one stopping, often
to read the messages left in remembrance for those missing or dead in the
World Trade Center. With tears rolling down their cheeks, they would
whisper prayers as their breath froze in the night air. A two by three foot
poster, covered in children's handprints, hung on the gate and proclaimed
the simple message, "We Love You." Shirts with phrases such as "United We
Stand," "God Bless America," and "We Remember the Fallen" had been tied to
the top of the surrounding fence. Pictures of the missing, accompanied by
letters and poems from their loved ones, filled every inch of empty space.
Small American flags proudly waved in the cold wind and burning candles
lined the pavement around the memorial wall of grief and loss.
As I stretched my legs, I continued to check the badges and identification
of all the rescue workers entering St. Paul's Chapel. Across the street
from the World Trade Center complex in New York City, the centuries old
chapel, once attended by George Washington, has become a makeshift shelter
for the workers who spend hours at Ground Zero sorting through tons of
twisted metal and slabs of jagged concrete. Police officers, firefighters,
EMS workers, sanitation workers, anyone working on the rescue and recovery
efforts are welcome. The chapel is a place where they can eat some dinner,
grab a cup of coffee, take a nap, warm up, get some chapstick and a new
sweatshirt, talk to friends, and escape, for a moment, from the eyes of the
public to let out their true emotions. People from around the country can
travel to the chapel and serve a twelve-hour shift as a volunteer. About
twenty-four adults from my church made the three-day journey with me, and
after successfully completing my Sunday night shift, I had been given the
opportunity to return to the chapel and work a second twelve-hour shift.
When my fingers and toes began to go numb from the cold, I decided that I
could use something warm to drink. Leaving another volunteer in charge of
watching the gate, I climbed the large, dust covered stone steps and entered
the chapel. Lining the walls inside the chapel and hanging over the balcony
were millions of posters, pictures, quilts, cards, and gifts that had been
sent from around the world to cheer up the workers. Tables had been set up
around the edges of the room and mountains of donated hand warmers,
toothpaste, and band-aids were waiting to be used. Along the back wall of
the sanctuary a buffet-style dinner was served; by early morning, however,
corn and chicken soup were all that remained. Two pots of coffee sat on a
nearby table surrounded by packets of tea and cocoa.
With a cup of hot chocolate clutched in my hands, I turned to face the altar
at the opposite end of the room. About fifteen rows of pews stood in the
middle of the sanctuary. I slowly walked towards an empty seat, and
couldn't wait to sit down and relax for a minute after going without sleep
for 48 hours. A few firefighters had taken off their large workboots and
heavy fire coats and were stretched out on a pew for a quick nap. Others
were suiting up, putting on their helmets and work gloves, and preparing to
go back down to the site and work a few more hours at sorting through the
debris in the hopes of finding another body, or at least a part of one.
Their bloodshot eyes and exhausted faces showed their dedication. Uniforms
covered in dust and caked with mud told the story of long hours full of
grueling work. Police officers in their clean and pressed blue uniforms
mingled with the sanitation workers in dark green, dirt stained sweatshirts.
The sanctuary had become a melting pot: a gathering place where everyone
came to eat and talk and laugh and cry and rest.
Suddenly I heard a loud, baritone voice with a heavy 'New York' accent call
out. "Yo, K.C. Is that my girl, Dorothy, over there?"
This always made me laugh. Just as they are not all law-and-order,
criminal-chasing and bullet-dodging kinds of cops, I am not Dorothy. I
don't even live in Kansas. But everyone I met gave me that nickname.
I smiled and turned to see who had recognized me from the night before. I
was so excited when I realized it was a good, new friend of mine. Rob was
about five foot five and full of energy. He waived his arm to catch my
attention and then let his hand slip down to smooth the dark brown hair of
his slowly receding hairline. His glowing smile and contagious laugh
almost hid the sadness in his eyes and worry lines on his brow. As a
sanitation worker, he has spent every night since September 11th removing
piles of rubble from Ground Zero. Sometimes he picks up a shovel and helps
the workers move the debris from a pile into a truck. Sometimes he drives
the truck to a facility where they sort through what is left. Most of the
time, he is in charge of other sanitation workers and helps direct them in
their jobs. The sanitation workers are the unsung heroes of the rescue
effort.
Rob came over and told me that he was having a difficult day. He said he
really wanted me to go on a walk with him over to the observation deck. The
deck is a huge ramp built by the city overlooking the disaster site.
Hundreds of thousands of people visit it every day and are able to
peacefully and prayerfully reflect on the tragedy. Out I went again into
the cold night, but I didn't mind at all, this time. We walked past the
thousands of memorials set up in front of the chapel and onto the deserted
observation deck, which was closed to the public that early in the morning,
allowing Rob and I to talk undisturbed. The cemetery for St. Paul's lay
behind us, its hallowed ground transformed into a war zone, with the
remnants of civilization lodged in its barren trees. A tangle of video tape
waved like a tattered battle flag. A blind from the window of an office
eerily scraped in the frigid wind.
We stood silently for a while, watching the work. Then Rob began to talk.
He would point to somewhere in the ditch, on the site, on the street, and
tell me story after story of the wedding rings, credit cards, and
photographs he had found. Of the bodies, crushed under enormous steel
beams, the hands and feet that were all that remained of some victims, the
faces frozen in a moment of terror and fear, he had seen. He told me his
own story of receiving only his brother's wallet. He described his hope for
finding his girlfriend who worked in Trade Center 2, and the agony he faced
after a month of fruitless searching. He took me back to the day the
Towers fell and poured every memory and image out. It was almost impossible
for me to handle. He spoke of everything I had heard on TV, only he was
real. He was flesh and blood. He was standing in front of me crying and
giving me a shoulder to cry on.
He had just begun another story when a call came in over his radio. It was
simple. "Another body found. Firefighter." We both stopped talking. For
a few seconds I couldn't breathe. Suddenly there was a flood of
firefighters racing out of the chapel and towards the morgue. A few
seconds later everything stopped. The cranes and dump trucks, the drills
and machines. Everything froze in place and there was complete silence.
Even the wind obeyed the command for reverence. I have never heard silence
like that. Utter, complete, penetrating silence.
My breath caught in my throat when I saw the honor processional bearing the
firefighter from the rubble to the small side building. Each person lining
the rout saluted and removed his or her helmet. It was poetic,
awe-inspiring and holy.
Rob and I turned and headed back to the chapel once the body had been taken
inside. He had more work to do, and so did I. The firefighters began to
trickle back into the chapel, and I was there to welcome them all. I
stopped a chief before he entered and asked him eagerly, "Did you really
find a firefighter?"
He nodded back.
I asked, "Do you know who he is or which house he worked for?"
He smiled at me. "No, Dorothy. We know he is a firefighter by his coat,
but his body is so decomposed and burned that we can't tell anymore right
now."
My face sort of dropped with sadness, and he could tell I felt discouraged.
He patted me on the shoulder and said, with the biggest smile in the world,
"But we found another one, Dorothy! Keep up hope! We found another one!"
I realized that is how they do it. They keep up their hope. They take
pride in finding their own. They take pride in their jobs. I was inspired,
and I can truly say that my heroes are all the rescue workers at the Trade
Center. They have given me new hope for life, and I have left my heart
with them.
