9/11 Ten Years. Let it Go!

I want no pictures, images of any kind of the towers, pentagon, open field.  There are enough in my memories to last 2 lifetimes. I want no communion with others. I am grateful to work Sundays, but today, especially today. All preaching will be on this single subject with the phrase "Never Again" ringing in our ears. I thought I would share this post by my friend, Elizabeth retelling her experiences.

It's titled "9/11 Cheeseburgers of Hope" and you'll understand why when you read the whole thing at her place.

I saw an announcement recently for a Taize Service at an Episcopal Church. It promised, "No towers. No testimonies. Just candles, chanting, prayers and silence."

Sounds good to me.

It's been pretty overwhelming to watch the media race to have the first, the most profound, the most visually graphic images of 9/11.

I've seen several really good videos produced by various organizations, some of which are reflections by people who were there. Others are about the 9/11 Memorial which opens this Sunday and the Museum which is scheduled to open next year.

And, I've read some powerful essays about the presence of Evil and how some have learned to confront it as well as reflections on what we have or haven't or still need to learn, 10 years later.

I think I'm done.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's important to mark events in time such as these. It's important to reflect and learn from history. It's very important to move on to hope and change which is hard to do unless you mark and reflect and learn.

I get that.

It's just that I have a few images of my own about those events and that place which is alternately called "The Pit" or "Ground Zero".

Things I saw with my own two eyes.

Things I heard with my own two ears.

Moments I experienced which are so profound they continue to pull at the corners of my heart all these many years later.

It's the dust that gets to me. It always is.

I remember the moment when one of the Fire Chiefs came into the Seamen's Church Institute where I had gone to volunteer after discovering that there were no bodies to tend to at St. Vincent's Hospital where I had originally gone.

He came into the front door asking where the boots were. It was the fourth pair he had changed that day. I looked down at his boots and saw that most of the rubber had melted right on his feet. One can only wonder how hot the ground was at "The Pit".

"C'mon in," I said, "We'll get you fixed right up. Have you had anything to eat? There's a 70 pound meatloaf upstairs and some killer mashed potatoes. Hungry?"

"Oh, hi, sister," he said, obviously thinking that I was a nun. A gentleman, he took off his helmut as a sign of respect. The nuns of his Irish Roman Catholic youth had taught him well.

When he moved his helmet, ashes flew everywhere. He looked at himself and started to slap the arms and legs of his fireman's suit, muttering apologetically, "There are ashes everywhere . . ."

And then, it hit him. He stopped mid-slap and sucked in his breath. "Ashes....," he said. "Everywhere....." He looked at me, his eyes filling with tears and said, "Ashes. . . .".

It took me a few seconds for my brain to register what he was saying, but I saw it in his tears.

"Ashes".

Not just pulverized concrete and cinder and metal. These were also the ashes of people - perhaps some of the very people he was searching to find.

Read 9/11 Cheeseburgers of Hope.

I want no dire warnings or fear-mongering from pundits and politicians.
I want only to be alone with a single candle, memories, and a few silent prayers.


And so it goes.
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