When Matt’s first call rang out across the valley, I was well concealed, with camouflage covering every inch of my body. I had a perfect view of the trails in front of me and could see about one hundred yards through the trees with my binoculars. Matt’s calls were so realistic that I glanced back, expecting to see a moose standing there. I envisioned the sound waves extending across the valley and up the mountainsides. My hands tingled as I focused every ounce of my energy on the trail.
Bring it on I’m ready.
11
* * *
LOVE AND PAIN
Wounds are what break open the soul to plant the seeds of a deeper growth.
—ANN VOSKAMP
In 2001, I lived with my brother Shane in a house in Lake Stevens, Washington, an hour’s drive north of Seattle. From the outside, it appeared as if everything in my life was just fine. I remained dedicated to my work as a firefighter and had begun training to be a helicopter pilot. On the inside, though, I was broken. I did not want to face my disappointment and pain. It had been six years since my divorce from Mary Jo and since my dream of becoming a missionary pilot had been shattered.
I sometimes filled my Friday nights at McCabe’s, a country western dance place in Everett. I didn’t dance, but I liked spending time there with my brother and a buddy, Ryan, watching the girls.
On a Friday at the end of that summer, I decided to visit McCabe’s on my own. A disc jockey played music for the crowd on the sawdust-covered dance floor while I tipped a longneck at the bar. Then someone tapped on my shoulder.
I turned to face two girls who looked close to my age. The “tapper” wore a white blouse, Levi’s, and roper boots. She had sandy blond hair and green eyes. I realized I’d seen her there before—she was a great dancer. Now, to my surprise, she wanted a favor: “We need you to enter the Wrangler Best Butt Contest.”
Apparently, she wasn’t kidding.
“Nooo,” I said, “I don’t think so.” I turned back around.
I felt another tap on my shoulder. I turned again toward the blond girl. “We really need you to do this,” she said.
“No, I’m not interested.”
“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”
As I looked closer at this persistent young woman, I realized that those green eyes were truly beautiful. An idea popped into my head.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Rhea.”
“Okay, Rhea,” I said. “Here’s the deal. First of all, if I do this, you’re gonna do this too.”
“No.”
“All right, forget it.” I started to turn again.
“Well . . . ,” she said, “what else?”
“You have to teach me how to dance.”
Rhea started talking to her friend and I thought that was the end of it. But a few moments later, she was back.
“Okay,” she said. “Deal.”
Both Rhea and I were forced to parade on the dance floor in front of a crowd of beer-drinking “judges.” Believe it or not, both of us advanced to the next round of the best butt competition. More important, I left that night with Rhea’s phone number. I called her the next day. She surprised me again with another request: Would I go with her to church?
I had not set foot in a church in a long time. Since the collapse of my marriage and my missionary dreams, I was so hurt and confused about what God was doing that I’d basically turned off that part of my life. I believed I’d let the Lord down again and felt more distant from him than ever.
The memory of those green eyes, however, was inviting me to give my faith another chance. I guess that’s why I found myself standing next to Rhea the next morning in a modern church sanctuary in Everett, singing worship songs. I knew the lyrics from my days in church with Janelle. As we sang, Rhea gave me a strange look.
As soon as the service ended, Rhea said, “How did you know all the words to those songs?” She must have thought she was hanging out with a heathen.
“I’ve been to church a few times,” I said with a laugh.
I think both of us felt something click that morning. Just seeing Rhea’s enthusiasm during worship, singing and raising her hands, was infectious. I loved her magnetic smile. This was someone I wanted to get to know better.
* * *
THE PHONE WAS RINGING. IT was a Tuesday morning, just over a week after I’d met Rhea. I had fallen asleep on the couch after driving home. The caller was one of my good friends at the fire department.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“I’m trying to catch up on my sleep,” I said. “We had a long shift last night.”
“Are you watching TV?”
“No, I’m sleeping.”
“You need to turn the news on.” He hung up.
I wondered what this was about. I hit the power button for my television and was shocked to see video replays of a Boeing 767 crashing into the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York City. Just a few minutes later, I watched live as another Boeing 767 slammed into the South Tower. Later that morning, I was horrified to see both towers collapse.
Our nation was under attack by terrorists. I couldn’t believe it.
In May the previous year, at a funeral for a fellow firefighter in New York, I’d met another firefighter named Andre Fletcher, along with his twin brother, Zack. Andre was a member of Rescue 5, a unit housed at a fire station on New York’s Staten Island. Andre and I hit it off immediately. Not only was Andre an FDNY (Fire Department of the City of New York) firefighter, he was also a member of one of the department’s elite rescue companies. Like me, he loved the job and lived to face the danger. I spent the entire weekend with Andre, another friend, and Zack, who was also a firefighter.
On the afternoon of September 11, Zack called me. “Andre is missing,” he said. Everyone from Rescue 5 who responded to the World Trade Center after the initial attacks was missing. “I need you to come out here and work on my crew,” Zack said. “We need to find Andre.”
I wasn’t quite sure what I was agreeing to, but if a brother firefighter needed my help, no way was I going to turn him down.
I left the following Saturday, after my chief approved my time off and planes were cleared to fly again. The night before my departure, I was laying out gear in my living room and checking to make sure everything was in order, when the doorbell rang. It was Rhea. She’d put together a gift bag filled with goodies for me: a package of gummy bears, chocolate, batteries, instant cameras, a card, and a stuffed bear holding a message that said, “I’ll be praying for you.”
It was special that she’d taken the time to do that for me. I realized that Rhea was concerned about me. She sensed that I would be walking into a difficult situation. She was right.
The evening I arrived, Zack picked me up at LaGuardia Airport and drove me to his station near the intersection of South and Wall Streets, just blocks from the World Trade Center area. The mood was somber. The next morning, a military Humvee transported us to Ground Zero. When I climbed out and looked up, the sight was overwhelming. The towers were simply gone. Smoke still rose from the debris and rubble. The empty space was surrounded by mostly destroyed structures out of a post-apocalyptic nightmare. I didn’t know how tall the closest building used to be, but it had been reduced to eight or nine stories. I could see sections where an engine from one of the jets that struck the towers had ripped open the guts of the adjacent building, leaving jagged remnants of panels, girders, and twisted steel. The image reminded me of a meat grinder. Other buildings near the towers had simply melted.
My first reaction was to turn away. I do not want to be here, I thought. Nevertheless, it was time to go to work. Our initial assignment was to locate pieces of the Boeing 767s that could be analyzed by investigators. We found some of those. We also found pieces of people, most commonly in the form of shoes with someone’s feet still in them. Every body part was sealed inside a bag at the on-site morgue for DNA testing.
Late one day, after a week of twe
lve-hour shifts, I was preparing to crawl into an empty pocket of space beneath the rubble. We’d already evacuated the area twice, since portions of the “Pile,” as it was known, were still collapsing. I sat for a moment on a steel I-beam, pulled my respirator from my sweaty face, and wiped dust from my eyes. When I could focus again, I noticed that amid the torn and scattered papers lying at my feet was an intact hundred-dollar bill. It was no ordinary greenback. This bill had been soaked in blood.
I couldn’t help but wonder whose blood had been shed here. As I thought about it, the dam of emotions I’d been holding back since I arrived in New York finally fractured within me. I fell to my knees. Tears poured from my eyes, not just for those who’d perished but also for our bleeding nation. It sounds crazy, but in that moment I could swear I heard from deep below the skeletal, smoldering ruins of the Twin Towers the cry of three thousand entombed Americans. Their silent screams of pain were eerily and disturbingly familiar.
Without doubt, the work that my fellow firefighters and I performed at Ground Zero was important. Yet my greatest contribution during the three and a half weeks I spent in New York actually occurred right after my twelve-hour shifts on the Pile. Exhausted, covered in concrete dust, and with tools slung over our shoulders, the other firefighters and I would nod to the police officers who lined the exit path. We were crossing the threshold from one pain to another, except this pain had faces. Before us were hundreds of people holding pictures of loved ones. Some stared numbly, a hand and photo outstretched, in hopes that we would recognize the face. Others spoke through sobbing tears, calling out to ask if we’d seen their husband, daughter, grandparent, nephew, mother.
“Were you working near the South Tower? My sister was on the eighty-fifth floor and we can’t find her.”
“Have you seen my brother down there? Here is his photo.”
A fellow first responder, Kevin Fox, and I made it our mission to spend a couple of hours each night with these hurting people. We walked into the middle of the crowd and provided an update on what we were doing. The first question after they gathered around us was always “Has anyone been pulled out alive today?” My eyes would move to the ground before I answered. I wanted to give them hope, but the words I had to speak would bring none. Instead, we gave out hugs and cried with them. When I looked into the desperate eyes of these men, women, and children, I wanted so much to bring their loved ones home. But I couldn’t.
During my time there we never did find any sign of Andre or any of the eleven members of Rescue 5 who perished on September 11.
On one of my last days in the city, Kevin and I were again trying to comfort the crowds near the collapsed towers. A little girl about ten years old stood down the street. Every time I looked her way, she frantically waved at me. After nearly two hours of talking with people, Kevin and I finally made our way down the street toward the little girl. She stood in front of a large, butcher-paper mural that rested on the sidewalk against a wrought-iron fence. The mural included a man’s photograph and the statements and signatures of hundreds of well-wishers.
As we walked up, the young girl smiled at us through tears.
“What an incredible mural you’ve made,” I said.
“This is my prayer mural for my daddy to come home safe,” she said. “My daddy is a fireman like you, but he hasn’t come home yet.”
I had to turn away. I didn’t want this innocent child to see the pain that suddenly swept over my face.
Turning back to her, I said, “I believe in God. Could I write a prayer to help bring your daddy home?” She gave an excited nod. I took a felt marker from her hand and leaned over to sign the mural. I couldn’t see because of the tears running down my face and onto the mural. When I looked closer, I saw the evidence of countless drops where writing had been smeared. I realized I hadn’t been the only one crying while asking God for a miracle for this little girl.
I took the girl in my arms and gave her a long hug. “Your father in heaven is looking for your daddy,” I said, “and will take care of him no matter where he is.” Then I said goodbye, slung my tools back onto my shoulder, and walked down the gray, dust-filled street.
* * *
AS SOON AS I GOT back to Washington, Rhea and I started spending all of our free time together. This girl seemed perfect in so many ways. The fact that she had a strong faith and was drawing me back to the Lord also felt right. I soon realized that I was in love and that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with Rhea. Amazingly, it seemed that she felt the same way.
The one dark cloud that hovered over my suddenly rising hopes was my still-present fear of failing as a father. Rhea already had a five-year-old son, Casey, from a previous relationship. Casey was great, and I knew that if Rhea and I decided to make our relationship permanent, he would be part of the package. But the idea of becoming a stepdad was more than intimidating. I was certain that at some point I would let Rhea and Casey down.
My love for both of them, however, somehow overcame my fear of blowing it yet again. I mentioned my reservations about fatherhood to Rhea but didn’t reveal just how deep those feelings went. She already has a boy, I thought. Maybe one child will be enough for her.
The following spring, I bought the biggest diamond ring I could afford and proposed. Happily, Rhea said yes. Instead of planning a big wedding, we decided to elope so we could save our money for a honeymoon cruise to the Mexican Riviera. An innkeeper with a pastor’s license married us on June 8, 2002, in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I was so thankful that after all I’d been through, the Lord had allowed love to come back into my life. I couldn’t have been more thrilled.
A year later, my feelings were a bit different. I was still madly in love with Rhea. But one morning when I arrived home after a twenty-four-hour shift at the fire department, she met me in the living room.
“I’ve got something to tell you,” she said.
“What is it?” I asked. I couldn’t tell if this was good news or bad.
“Hold on,” she said. Rhea left the room and returned a minute later while concealing something behind her back. I had no idea what this was about.
“I have a surprise for you,” she said. Then she showed me what she’d been hiding: five test sticks from the home pregnancy kits she’d purchased at a discount store.
“Look,” she said with a grin. Each one was colored blue.
I wasn’t ready for news like this. “Do those even work?”
“I think so,” Rhea said. “There are five of them.”
“Oh my gosh.”
It wasn’t as if we’d been doing anything to prevent a pregnancy, yet I was still shocked. I just believed I was destined to never have children of my own. I was so certain I’d be a terrible dad that I didn’t think God would allow it to happen.
Stepping into the role of stepdad for Casey had gone surprisingly well. I’d taught him how to fish, ride a bike, and catch a baseball. We’d gone camping as a family and we all went to church. He seemed to love all of it. Maybe I felt less pressure since I knew I wasn’t Casey’s biological dad. Whatever the reason, we connected.
Now, however, I was suddenly confronted with the reality of becoming a biological father—and I was terrified. All the old fears erupted like a volcano. I did not want any child to suffer with the feelings I’d been carrying with me nearly all my life, and I was so afraid of condemning a son or daughter to the same fate.
As always, though, I tried to hide my fear and pain. No way did I want Rhea to know I had such deep-seated doubts. Nor did I want to dampen her obvious excitement. Instead, I gave her a huge hug and put on my brightest smile.
But a funny thing happened over the next few weeks. As the reality of the pregnancy set in, I began to accept the idea of becoming a dad. I didn’t seem to be ruining Casey. Rhea, who must have suspected my fear, kept telling me what a great father I would be. Maybe I could succeed at raising a family.
After a lot of thought and prayer, I decided that failure was simply not an op
tion. I knew how to prepare for a challenge. I would train myself to become the best father I could possibly be.
To my surprise, I actually began to get excited about the baby.
It was a sunny day in August when Rhea called me at work. I immediately heard the tension in her voice. “Something’s wrong,” she said. “I’m bleeding and there’s too much blood.” At this point she was fourteen weeks along in the pregnancy.
A trip to the doctor confirmed Rhea’s fears. She’d suffered a miscarriage.
Rhea was devastated—and so was I. I had actually started to embrace the idea of becoming a dad. Now that chance was suddenly gone.
I was confused and angry. God, why did this have to happen? Why did you allow Rhea to get excited about a new baby and allow me, after all these years, to finally want to be a dad . . . and then take it all away?
When I looked back on my life, it seemed that whenever I loved someone, any joy I felt was always canceled out by an equal measure—or more—of pain. How was I supposed to make sense of this? How could I keep living this way?
God, why?
12
* * *
ATTACK
The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy.
—JOHN 10:10 ESV
7:45 A.M., TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22
KENAI PENINSULA
I sat in position at the top of the knoll, my compound bow nocked with a 175-grain broadhead arrow draped across my lap, binoculars to my face. Almost imperceptibly, I raised my view through the binoculars from the valley floor to the ridgeline above it. It was an incredible panorama: green pine trees and yellow-and-gold aspen stands stretched out beneath an azure sky. The wind was perfect, sweeping from left to right. Matt’s moose calls from the other end of the knoll behind me were spot-on. I could see the game trail up to forty yards away, right where it split off from the main trail and swept toward and past me. At its closest point the trail was twenty-five yards away. Everything was in alignment. I was going to fulfill my dream of confronting a bull moose with my bow. I could not have been more excited.
Wild Awakening Page 9