Reverend Bill Hybels
Somewhere in the darkness between Two Falls and Ogden, I eased my Ford F-250 off the freeway. I’d been driving nonstop since leaving Seattle, and I was tired. In the waning hours of September 12, I laid my head on the steering wheel for a few minutes rest.
When I closed my eyes I could see it clearly, jutting into the cobalt-blue Rocky Mountain sky. I’d known of the I.A.F.F. Fallen Firefighter monument for years but had never visited Colorado Springs until September 1995. My first visit to the national memorial had come as the result of a fiery warehouse collapse that took the life of my friend Jim and three other Seattle firefighters eight months earlier.
Every September thereafter, I’d trek back to “the springs” for the annual memorial observance. I’d always find a quiet moment to stand below the monument and gaze up in awe at the bronze image of a firefighter descending a ladder, cradling an infant in one arm. I’d run my fingers across the new crop of names etched on the smooth, black granite wall fronting the monument. Behind the wall, an American flag flew proudly, often at half-mast. Memorial staff members would lower Old Glory to the position of tribute each time a firefighter gave his life. A new flag would be hoisted and flown for each fallen firefighter and presented to the public servant’s family in a triangular oak case at the September observance.
I lifted my head off the steering wheel and put my truck into gear. The diesel growled as I accelerated back onto the freeway toward Colorado.
Several hours later I was south of Ogden, finishing yet another cup of lukewarm coffee. In a moment of fatigue, a wave of selfish frustration passed over me. I seethed that terrorists on the other side of my continent could carry out such cruelty and simultaneously toss my life into such chaos. I had planned to make this year’s trip with my wife, Kate, but our flight had been canceled along with everyone else’s.
In the softly breaking light, my eye caught a solitary American flag fastened to a lonely fence post by some defiant patriot, hanging loosely in the predawn stillness. From Seattle southward I’d seen stars and stripes everywhere—stapled to car antennas, hanging from farmhouse rooftops and slung from office windows. As I considered the thousands now dead, their shattered families and the hundreds of sacrifices made by fellow firefighters, my frustration evaporated, and in its place I felt shame for my selfishness.
In his dying, Jimmy had given me a wonderful gift. For years I’d guarded a secret. I was a closet poet. After a particularly tragic accident or difficult shift, I would write, for hours on end sometimes, to soothe the pain and restlessness in my own soul. Ironically, it was at Jimmy’s funeral, while reciting one of my poems that his mother had requested, that I discovered my fireground songs resonating in the hearts of many other firefighters.
Word traveled quickly, and soon I was wearing the nickname “firehouse poet” with a combined sense of embarrassment and awkward pride. In the years that followed, the I.A.F.F. Memorial had used several of my poems during their annual observances. They’d even published several on plaques. I was honored, but never more so than after the 2000 observance. The memorial’s director had approached me with a special request. With the existing wall of honor nearly full of the names of fallen firefighters, a new wall was to be constructed. Would I, he asked, consider writing a poem to be etched on the new wall?
It hadn’t been an easy project. For months I’d struggled to find the words, only to come up empty again and again. The question kept haunting me, What can I possibly say to make this memorial any more meaningful?
I had discovered the answer in early April on a family weekend getaway. As I leaned against a piece of driftwood and watched seagulls ride the ocean winds, a revelation struck me: the memorial wasn’t complete. It contained monuments, memorial walls and names of our fallen, but there was no parting thought, no final message. The memorial lacked a statement from fallen firefighters. As I visualized the thousands of children yet to learn they would never see Daddy again, the mothers and fathers yet to bury a child, and spouses yet to become widows and widowers, the poem I’d been looking for was born. I scratched out the two dozen lines on a wrinkled scrap of paper, tucked it in my pocket and joined A. J. and Annie, my son and daughter, as they played near the surf.
By early mid afternoon on September 13, I was an hour north of Denver. Pulling into a gas station in Fort Collins, I nearly collided with a red, four-wheel Toyota pickup. Flapping proudly above the truck’s cab were two massive American flags. Instead of an obscene gesture or a glowering scowl, the driver gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled and returned the gesture. How the world had changed in forty-eight hours! I’d never witnessed such patriotism, such camaraderie between strangers. Out of unspeakable evil, good was already emerging.
Arriving in Colorado Springs, I checked into my room and tossed my two suitcases on the floor. After nearly twenty-four hours on the road, the king-size bed looked inviting, but I had one final stop to make. I jumped into my pickup once again and turned the key.
From my parking space two hundred yards from the monument I could see the bouquets. Rainbows of flowers covered the memorial grounds, some carefully lining the top of the black granite wall, others strewn at random like toys abandoned by a toddler. Dozens of hardened wax puddles littered the cobblestone walkway encircling the site, each spent candle a token of a grateful citizen’s respect and remembrance. Amongst the flowers were cards and hand-written notes: “We love you,” “Thank you for your sacrifice” and “God bless your families.” Another bore a meticulously colored picture of a Dalmatian and a stick figure crying. “I’m sad you died,” it said simply.
Barely a whisper of wind moved the half-mast American flag. It hung like a sentinel over the original black granite wall with its new crop of freshly etched names, each a symbol of a firefighter’s family sacrifice. I turned my attention to the newly constructed wall behind it.
Stretching out seventy feet, its rich ebony surface was blank except for a lonely poem. As I ran my hand over the stone plates, I realized the first names to be inscribed here would not be those of sixty, seventy, or even one hundred firefighters from a year’s worth of tragedies, but those of more than three hundred of New York’s bravest who died in a single, terrible ordeal. I leaned against the cold, smooth granite and cried.
As expected, firefighter turnout to the Saturday memorial service was sparse. On September 15, thousands of firefighters were mobilizing nationwide for rescue and support operations, and with air service 10 percent of normal, hundreds more had been unable to find a flight. But in the void created by absent firefighters, citizens streamed to the memorial from Colorado Springs and beyond. From Denver to the north and Pueblo to the south, from Cascade and Fort Carson, they came by the thousands, bringing with them their tears, their flowers, their hugs, their whispers of support. In our time of grief and remembrance, they had not forgotten us.
As l looked out over the thousands who had come to grieve firefighters they’d never known, I realized that, maybe for the first time, America truly understood. They understood that, for firefighters, the only difference between the unspeakable tragedy in New York and those that occur each week on our continent lies in the number of lives lost—never in the depth of commitment or price-lessness of the sacrifice. As I stood at the microphone and prepared to share my poem, I realized America did understand. We had been there for them. Now, they were here for us.
Battling tears and a rising lump in my throat, I shared the words etched on the new memorial wall—the words I’d jotted that early spring day on a coastal inlet as the surf had pounded the shoreline. Simple words, but powerful words, I hoped. Simple and powerful, like the breed of American they were intended to honor.
Given the Choice
If I’d been given the choice,
you know I would’ve stayed.
Grown a little more gray,
a lot more wise,
fought a few more fires,
saved a few more lives.
If I w
ere given the choice,
I’d come back one more time
to see and touch
the ones I miss
I’d dry one tear,
steal one kiss.
And if I were to choose
where you’d etch my name,
I’d ask, this field
beneath the Rockies,
where mountains tower
above the plains.
Carve my memory
in this granite,
here with these
who teach the world
what lion-hearted bravery is,
each time another flag’s unfurled.
Captain Aaron Espy
Reprinted with permission of Michael De Adder. Artizans.com.
Taking Control
It was the morning of Friday, September 21, 2001. I was walking through the expansive United Airlines terminals at O’Hare International Airport noticing that the normally busy terminals were unusually quite. As a person who flies regularly, I would have guessed that it was early on a weekend or holiday and not a regular Friday business day, if not for the sad reality as to why the airport was so sparse.
After checking in and going through security, I began my long walk to my gate. Along the way I enjoyed listening to Copeland’s “Appalachian Spring” over the airport sound system, and unknowingly I started to whistle along with the song. As I was descending the escalator a voice to my left said, “Catchy tune, isn’t it?” It was the voice of a United pilot.
“Yes, Captain,” I said.
Unsolicited, the captain turned to me and said, “There are two ways to stop all of this,” instantly knowing exactly of what he was speaking.
“One way is the fact that in my hands I control an extremely powerful piece of equipment, and if I have to, I can cause that plane to have so much turbulence that you couldn’t hold down your lunch, not to mention hold a weapon.”
“Indeed,” I replied, knowing he needed no prompting to continue.
“The second way is when the passengers become fed up,” clearly implying the counterattack methods used by passengers on Flight 93.
I was stunned by the power of his words. He at once appeased my fears and empowered me to control my own destiny. How settling was his admission that he would virtually shake any assailant into submission, and if that was not enough, admonishing me and all passengers to fight, if not for our own well-being then for the thousands of lives we could be saving on the ground.
Now, I am not a person who advocates violence, but the thought that a knife-wielding assailant might have to contend with my laptop holding shoulderbag used as a sling gave me resolve.
Once seated on the plane, I again heard the same captain’s strong voice, this time over the plane’s PA system. After welcoming all aboard he announced to the entire plane what he had shared with me earlier. In addition, he added that he was a combat-experienced pilot and a veteran of a hijacking some thirty years ago.
Here we were in the face of all that anxiety and fear, and this wonderful captain made us all realize that we need not be passive victims, but that our fate is at least partially in our own hands and his.
Matthew E. Adams
Operation Teddy Bear
I am only one, but I am one. I cannot do everything, but I can do something. And I will not let what I cannot do interfere with what I can do.
Edward Everett Hale
I was driving the children to school when I first heard the news. My initial thoughts were that it was a small plane that had undoubtedly caused damage, but it was early and surely there were not many people at work yet.
I thought How awful, and I hoped that there were no fatalities. Then I put it out of my mind. To be honest, I was too busy wallowing in my own pity to dwell on something that happened so far away from my little world in a tiny town in Tennessee. My husband was out of work nearly a month now and still he had found nothing. We were so far behind on bills I doubted we would ever dig out of that hole. I had made an appointment to see if I could get state assistance just to put food on the table for our three children. I was missing my mother, who had passed away in 1997, and had no one to share my woes. I remember thinking that things couldn’t get much worse.
I made it back home, and after tidying up the house a bit, I settled in to nurse the baby and catch a bit of television. The images that flashed across the screen on every channel horrified me. I went from shock and disbelief to absolute horror, then came the anger, and finally I just went numb. I had cried for hours and hours and couldn’t sleep at all that night. All my petty thoughts of debt and self-pity were gone. True, I was in the same predicament that I had been in hours earlier, but that seemed somehow trivial in the face of such tragedy. So many lives, so much destruction and an entire nation in mourning. Who cares if the car payment is made? I sat in my bed that night and I cried. I cried for the mothers who lost their children, and for the firefighters, EMTs and police who paid the ultimate price in the name of service. I cried for the children who lost their parents. I cried for our nation, and I cried for my children. I cried because I was fortunate enough to have a home and bed to go to that night and because my children, husband and family were all safe and sound. I cried out of fear that we may go to war and my children would have to be raised during war time. I cried until no more tears came.
The next morning I went through the usual motions of getting the children ready for school. They asked very few questions about the previous day’s events, but the few they did ask started me thinking.
“Why did God make bad people, Mommy?” asked my six-year-old.
“God didn’t make them bad, honey,” was my mumbled response. Thankfully that appeased him.
“Mom, can’t we go and help them?” my eleven-year-old pleaded.
“Oh baby, I wish that we could, but it is so far away and we just don’t have any money to send,” came my shame-filled reply.
Once the children were in school, their questions continued to flutter in my mind. Why? Why? WHY? I didn’t have any answers, only more questions of my own. I stopped at Wal-Mart to pick up diapers, and while there, I saw some red, white and blue ribbon. It was only forty-four cents for a roll, so I figured I could afford that much to show my support for those who were dealing with such horror. I made unity ribbons for the entire family and even had enough ribbon to make a few extra that I carried to the school and gave to the teachers. That night my daughter removed her ribbon and pinned it to her favorite teddy bear, I assumed for safe-keeping. Then to my surprise she brought the bear over to me and said, “Mommy, can I send this to New York to one of the people who were hurt?”
With tears in my eyes I said, “Sure, honey, I think we could do that.” From there the wheels began to turn in my head. Why couldn’t we do that? I thought I could collect bears and attach a unity ribbon and a handwritten message to each one to send to New York City and Washington, D.C. I can do that! So the 911 Teddy Bear Brigade (Operation Bear Hugs) was born.
I got on my computer, and I told as many people as I could. One of the online groups called “Mom writers” was especially supportive. This group of mothers is one of the most compassionate group of people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Before I knew it, I had suggestions coming in and offer to help write a press release, and within a few days, over forty bears from around the world had been delivered to my doorstep.
Once the press release and flyers were ready, things really took off. I was interviewed first by the local paper, then on television by our local public access television show, “Tullahoma Living.” Then the newsleader Channel 6 had us on briefly. I e-mailed several network news channels, and a few of them mentioned our project. Girl Scout troops sent us bears with notes that would tear your heart out. With each new bear and every precious message attached, our hearts were filled to overflowing and we cried. Oh, how we cried.
By October 5, we had in our possession about three hundred bears. Some of them didn’t have notes, and for th
ose we asked local fire and police departments if they wanted to write messages, and for the others we wrote them.
We have a target date of December 11, 2001, to send the bears to New York City and Washington. We don’t know how many we will end up with, but our target is five thousand.
We will be giving the bears to the volunteers. We noticed that much was being done for the victims and families, so we wanted to honor the volunteers who have worked so tirelessly, sleeping on the street and returning to work at daybreak. I cannot imagine the horror of the scene at Ground Zero, but I am so thankful for the people who are there giving so selflessly of themselves to help others. They deserve our thanks and so much more. I know you may be thinking a bear is nothing in the scheme of things, but it isn’t really the bear that counts. It is the messages attached, the love and gratitude and the simple gesture that count. The volunteers are the backbone of the rescue and clean-up efforts and should not be overlooked. I think this quote says it best: “Volunteers are NOT paid, not because they are worthless, but because they are priceless.”
I just wanted to show that if I can do something to help make a difference, then anyone can. I am simply a stay-at-home mommy on a tight budget. I had no money to give, but I gave what I did have: my love and eternal gratitude.
Tina Warren
No Words
In the days that followed the bombings of the World Trade Center, New York stayed at a standstill. Those who managed to get to work did so with a sense of purpose but also with fear. Some thought that by going back to work, they were making a statement, “We’re Americans. We aren’t cowed, beaten.” But fear lurked everywhere—in the horrific images on TV, among survivors and their friends and acquaintances, in the faces of passersby on the streets.
Chicken Soup for the Soul of America Page 11