In Honor of All Who Died at the Hands of a Madman

I first wrote this two years ago, and repeat it today in honor of all who died to satisfy the wanton lust for blood of a pusillanimous madman. 

 

I had slept in, taken my morning walk late and was just making my first cup of coffee when my daughter called me.  “Mom,” her urgent voice said, “I saw the plane fly into the tower.  I saw it, Mom!  I was watching the television in the break room and that plane just flew into the second tower.”  That is how I learned that our country was under attack.  America began its emotionally tumultuous day—Pearl Harbor laid out before our eyes.  My husband and I are in the habit of having a glass of wine with dinner and toasting to any small, significant or touching thing that happens during our day.  That night, as I raised my glass, we both quietly spoke the words that were uppermost in our minds, “To the United States of America.” 

 

            Of all the lessons that can be taken from that day, one of the least discussed and most poignant is what happened to St. Paul’s Episcopal Chapel, located less than 100 yards from Ground Zero.  St. Paul’s dates back to 1766.  George Washington attended services there and his pew is still at the chapel.  That pew, the chapel itself, the surrounding cemetery, all should have been destroyed in the attack on the World Trade Center.  It should have, but, miraculously, it wasn’t.  The tall spire of its old, limestone structure became a beacon to the first responders, stumbling through clouds of dust, ash and destruction.  The building didn’t just stand, it lived.  Firemen and police came in the chapel and collapsed in exhaustion on the pews.  In this small house of worship they were temporarily sheltered from the specter of hell outside.  In the days that followed, the staff of St. Paul’s started preparing meals for the first responders.  The effort grew on its own and for 286 days 14,000 volunteers worked 12 hour shifts to provide food, comfort and spiritual care for the men and women working to clear the Ground Zero.  I have been to St. Paul’s and you walk through it with reverence.  Today it houses mementos from fire and police departments across the nation who sent men to Ground Zero.  

 

            This is not the first time St. Paul’s has survived a holocaust.  In 1776, as George Washington and the ragged Continental army were regrouping from the disastrous defeat of the Battle of Brooklyn, a tremendous fire leveled most of New York City.   St. Paul’s survived because men climbed to its roof and methodically put out the embers that landed thereon.  Time after time, this chapel has stood amongst the ruins.  It has used the volunteer spirit of the American frontiersman to do good in bad situations.

 

I am a spiritual person, but not a mystical one.  I worry more about how we relate to God than whether or not God micro-manages the doings of this planet.  Yet, every once in a while (frequently when things are as bad as they can get), God sends us a reminder that we are not alone.  St. Paul’s is a living monument to the quotation credited to Jung, but actually from old Latin texts by Erasmus, “Vocatus atque non vocatus, Deus aderit:  Bidden or not bidden, God is present.” 

 

            Whether you believe or not, God loves this country.  He watches us and watches over us.  He is with us when we are at our best and when we are at our worst.  He was with George Washington in 1776, and he was with the people of New York when the Twin Towers fell. 

 

He stays with us all, which is why we must keep the faith.