Yes, Sir! No, Sir! No Excuse, Sir!

In early December 2001, I left the rest center at Ground Zero seeking fresh air and a brief respite from the unrelenting sights, sounds, smells, and grief emanating from the horrific pit where great towers once stood. The dank church cellar was a place of refuge for exhausted first responders continuing the gruesome recovery effort now in its second month. I tightened my jacket collar and pulled my cap lower as the brisk winter wind bit at my face and ears. Passing Wall Street’s great brass bull statue, a few snowflakes danced teasingly on the wind. I walked aimlessly, eventually finding myself near the old docks and ancient commercial buildings that comprised the nascent city along the East River. Here strong arms and backs had first hauled a young nation’s merchandise and trade. Could the early settlers of colonial America have possibly dreamed that such a great city would emerge from their meager beginnings or be so grievously wounded by evil? I walked on, enjoying the relative solitude of empty streets and the freshening air while thanking God for the opportunity to serve Him at Ground Zero.

Turning a corner, I walked toward a crowd encircling the front entrance to a fire station. I noticed a growing memorial to the 343

FDNY casualties at Ground Zero comprised of flowers, pictures, notes, candles, and other items of remembrance as the public attempted to thank its firefighters and share in their collective grief. Photoflashes lit the scene, illuminating a firefighter’s tired face staring blankly from within. Exhausted from long weeks of difficult physical and emotional duty, the firefighters sat imprisoned by the crowd.

As I continued past, a firefighter opened the side door away from the public. I waved and continued walking.

He shouted, “Are you looking for T-shirts like everyone else?” (Some fire companies were selling T-shirts to raise funds for the families of fallen firefighters.) I hesitated and replied, “No, I’m just a tired fire chaplain taking a walk.”

He continued insistently, “Really, a fire chaplain? Come in. Hurry before they see you.” The metal door slammed with finality behind me.

He asked, “Father, did they send you from downtown?” When I replied that I lived in Orange County, he sighed and said, “Father, there’s someone you need to talk with now. Come on!” He left me no time to explain that I wasn’t a priest and that my Orange County was in California, not New York.

We walked through the apparatus room where a normally spotless truck and engine sat forlornly covered with the smell and detritus of service at Ground Zero. Several other firefighters hurriedly avoided our approach. I followed into the dated watch office where an exhausted firefighter sat doubled over, deeply sobbing into his hands. Without further words, the first firefighter quickly left the room.

Reaching deeply for each breath, his body heaved from effort, but there was no acknowledgment of my presence from the sobbing firefighter. The depth of his distress reminded me of the dark night many years before, when my own life had disintegrated. I sat near him in the small office and silently prayed. It was perhaps ten minutes before he acknowledged me with red, swollen eyes and runny nose. In the coming hour, a torrent of grief and anger engulfed me as he choked out his painful story. This firehouse had lost twelve men from the engine and truck companies during the Tower’s collapse. All had been close friends. He had attended their funerals in the weeks following the attack along with those of his brother, an uncle, and a number of friends also lost at Ground Zero. He was battling survivor’s guilt and post-traumatic stress magnified by physical exhaustion.

Working almost continuously since September 11, he said that he had almost forgotten what his wife and children looked like. On a recent day off, he and his wife had fought. She wanted her husband back, but he had lost himself in the days and weeks following September 11.