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Preamble
By Jerri
Phillips
Dear
ones,
Rod Dreher is a devout Christian, a
marvelous husband and father, and a
cherished friend. He also happens to be a
columnist for the New York Post. While
his career in journalism has taken him
around the world to cover both uplifting
and heartbreaking news stories, nothing
prepared him for the site he beheld
standing on the Brooklyn Bridge September
11, 2001. The following is Rod's attempt
at processing and making sense of a
terrible day that changed lives forever.
It is also a clear demonstration that it
does not take an act of unspeakable
horror to impact a life. Sometimes we
simply have to act. A lesson we could all
learn from Rod's son, Matthew.
Thank You
Thank You!
By Rod Dreher
New Yorkers have a
reputation for being proud and boastful
about their city, and it's a deserved
one. I grew up in the Deep South hating
New York and all its pomps and works.
Well, I grew up, got married, and moved
here for a job. And I have to tell you,
this is a pretty terrific place to live,
though I have never felt like bragging
about living here.
Until now. One week ago, I stood on the
Brooklyn Bridge, a half-mile away from
Ground Zero, and watched the first of the
two World Trade Center towers collapse.
As a columnist for the New York Post, it
was my job to run from my home on the
Brooklyn waterfront toward the burning
towers that morning. I made it as far as
the Manhattan side of the bridge before
the massive cloud of concrete dust,
smoke, asbestos and incinerated human
remains forced me to turn back. My wife
only learned I was alive when I opened
the door 45 minutes later. We shook and
cried. I wrote my story, then spent the
day praying and watching the magnitude of
the horror unfold on television.
You all know what happened next: over
5,000 missing and presumed dead,
including hundreds of New York
firefighters, who died trying to rescue
the stranded. Now, this city has always
had a special regard for its
firefighters, unlike anything I've
experienced elsewhere. When four
firefighters died battling a warehouse
fire on Father's Day this year, their
funerals made front-page headlines for
nearly a week. Now, fifty times as many
New York firefighters died on a single
morning, giving, in Abraham Lincoln's
words at Gettysburg, "gave the last
full measure of devotion."
How do you respond to a gift like this?
Nobody even stopped to think.
Immediately, indeed on that very morning,
citizens rushed to give whatever they
could. At the hospital down the block
from my apartment, so many from the
neighborhood ran over to volunteer that
the hospital had to take their names and
send them home. By the end of the day,
the blood banks were so full, donors were
turned away. By week's end, so much food
was being donated to the rescue workers
down in the crater that it was being
thrown away amid pleas to stop giving. My
wife, who was told they needed neither
her blood nor her time in a relief
kitchen, felt powerless and ashamed that
there was nothing she could do but pray
and write a check.
Still, she made brownies for the
firefighters just up the street. By the
grace of God, all the guys from that
station returned home. One of the shaken
survivors told me the only thing that
saved them was a jammed transmission on
their fire engine, which delayed their
arrival on the scene by a few minutes. It
was enough.
Now, our son Matthew has long loved
firefighters, and has for months worn his
little red plastic fire chief helmet
everywhere. After this, seeing a
fresh-faced two-year-old boy wearing a
fireman's helmet on the street is
unbearably poignant, and we've seen grown
men and women cry at the sight of him
this week.
When his mom made brownies for the
firemen, Matthew wanted to be the one to
hand them over. My wife told Matthew to
be sure to thank the firemen for all they
do for us. And so he did, in his tiny
voice, and all those big men, who have
shed so many tears for their fallen
comrades this week, nearly wept again.
We made a sadder visit to the firehouse a
bit farther away, on the far edge of our
neighborhood. The Middagh Street
firehouse left eight of their own buried
under that rubble. Those fellows have
always been so sweet to Matthew, taking
him in their laps and letting him sit in
their truck. And now eight of them are
dead. We went by as a family to pay our
respects, and were knocked o ver to find
a small crowd of our neighbors standing
there, weeping, praying, hugging the
survivors, and giving money, food and
supplies.
One fireman watched the pizza delivery
guy from on Henry Street bring in 10
pizzas, which had not been ordered.
"Look at that," he said.
"These restaurants around here, they
keep bringing over food, more food than
we can possibly eat. Those pizzas will go
in the garbage, probably, but we wouldn't
dare tell them to stop. They need
to do this."
I spoke to a young man standing on the
corner with his wife. He had been
temporarily blinded by the concrete dust
when he was caught on the street in the
aftermath of the first tower's collapse.
Two strangers saw he was blinded, and
walked him home across the Brooklyn
Bridge. It took them 45 minutes out of
their way, at a time when they no doubt
wanted more than anything to get home to
their loved ones, and let them know they
had survived. But these strangers had
given this man the gift of their help
when he was helpless. Now, three days
later, driven by his need to help, this
man did all he could: he and his wife
baked a pan of ziti, and brought it to
the mourning firemen.
Later that night, at a candlelight
memorial on the Brooklyn Heights
Promenade, which overlooks the mutilated
downtown Manhattan skyline, I stood
behind a group of older Hispanic ladies
singing hymns in Spanish. Someone asked,
"Why don't they sing any patriotic
songs?" Said someone else,
"Because they don't know any songs
in English." Those ladies gave what
they could.
Little Matthew has taken all this in, and
heard his mom and dad and their friends
talk about the incredible sacrifice of
the firefighters and police officers at
Ground Zero. He has heard us extol the
heroism and selflessness of these men,
and marvel at the response of the people
of this city, who have given everything
they had to give to those who lost so
much.
And we discovered that these lessons were
no t lost on him one night after a
memorial mass at our church.
I had to run off to an assignment, so
Matthew and his mom went to dinner with a
friend from church. I didn't get home
until after Matthew went to sleep, and
with tears in her eyes, Julie told me
about what happened in the restaurant.
"When we walked in, I was holding
Matthew, and he was wearing his fire
chief's helmet," she said.
"There was a fireman sitting there
having his dinner, and when he saw us
come in, his face lit up. He stood up,
and in a voice loud enough for everybody
to hear, said, 'Hey there, little fire
chief, I'd like to shake your hand!'
"I told Matthew, 'It's okay, honey,
he's a fireman.' The fireman held out his
hand, and Matthew took off his helmet and
gave it to him. The fireman smiled, and
said, 'That's okay, buddy, I don't want
your helmet; I just want to shake your
hand.'
"Do you know what your son
did?" Julie said. "He gave his
sippy cup to the fireman, and said,
'Thank you.'"
Copyright 2001 by Rod Dreher
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