In my book, Whispering Woods, I recount the devastation of the 9.11 attack specifically on one fictional family, the Baxters who lived and worked and worshiped within blocks of the World Trade Towers. This excerpt shows the damage to their two million dollar penthouse condo, their stewardship of taking all their food and pantry items to St. Paul’s Church to feed the rescuers, firemen, and workers at the site, and their leaving the city.
“Phil wonders out loud how the structures could simply collapse like that. What happened to the built- in fire shields, the state-of-the-art sprinkler systems, the structural steel mandated to withstand fire, and the buildings’ designs? Of course, given the heat of burning jet fuel, could any building withstand that assault? The implications for architecture are daunting. The concerns about being trapped above burning floors in any high rise building, cause him pause.
Like all Americans, indeed people worldwide, they are glued to television coverage of the day’s events. It’s like Karl Shapiro’s famous poem, “Autowreck” where people are attracted to the scene and can’t look away, opening new wounds each time, drawn to tragedy.
For Cathy and Phil and Jean, it is so very personal. In picture after picture of their neighborhood, they see their building and their beloved St. Paul’s Chapel, now a refuge, almost a shrine, and a place of mercy, assaulted even as they watch in aching disbelief.
They watch in horror the repeated shots Cathy had witnessed first-hand, of planes targeting those doomed World Trade Center Towers, and the devastation to the surrounding smaller beautifully-conceived outbuildings. They cry, watching people they know, fleeing the scene through layers of paper, debris, ashes, and smoke-clouds. Sobered, they know their Metro complex will not operate again, thinking about all the days they’d taken that service for granted as they headed back and forth to work. They agonize, knowing that rescue efforts continue.
They hear Michael’s principal interviewed, and rejoice that even they had been useful in shepherding children away from the danger to safety at PS 41. That school now houses refugees, and the strong volunteer efforts of hundreds of others showing the resiliency that harried human-interest reporters are trying to showcase, filling cable news stations with fresh insight into the ever-changing tableau.
Cathy remembers the words of her childhood TV idol, Mr. Rogers. His mother had told him, and he advised two generations of children and their parents on Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood, that any time they are scared because of something horrible that happens, that they should notice the helpers. That is the real story. The heroes and heroines who help others make sense out of situations so horrible that they are senseless, except for the efforts of the ones who give selflessly to help make things better. Yes, there are stories of angels unaware, of people who sacrifice their own well-being to help others. Heroism. Caring. Resourcefulness. Resolution. Reflection. None of them has ever witnessed a live story like this one. America is baring her soul for all the world to see.
Their sweet children sleep peacefully near them in a borrowed too-large hotel bed, protected from the graphic scenes. Cathy and Phil and the rest of the world are sucked into the time-captivating whirlpool that grasps them and won’t let them get away. Devastated, they hold hands and pray. “Dear Lord, Protector, Shield, Defender, and Lover of our Souls, we come to You, Abba Father. We know You are Sovereign; we know You love us with constant unconditional love because You have called us to You. Help us to understand this tragedy. Help us to serve your grand purpose in all of this. Help us to focus on Your direction. Help us to follow the plan You have laid out before us.
“We pray comfort for the bereaved, rescue for those still trapped in the rubble, wise counsel for our leaders and those in authority, strength for the responders and the countless volunteers who are showing loving brotherhood for others, and rest for the weary. We pray your comfort on our coworkers, on our friends who are bewildered, on our Nation, and on our neighborhood so devastated by this tragedy. We pray for the safety of Dad Goddard and those who are with him right this very minute. We pray, God, that he has survived and he is busy right this minute ministering to others. Keep him safely in your arms and your loving care.
“Most of all, we thank you for our safety and for the guidance you are providing. Is this, Lord, direction for us to begin our new life in a new place? We pray for peaceful rest, even as our children sleep, and help us to shield them from the tragedy which has brought us to this place. Amen.”
Thankful that they have options, they assure each other that their new life upstate is looking more and more promising. Rightly, they both predict dire consequences to the business scene on Wall Street, and fear for their own personal business fortunes as a result of this dreadful occurrence which has shattered the lives of so many. They suddenly feel vulnerable.
Actually, the country has never felt what it feels today. Always there was offensive action to take. Now, not so sure. In a mere half day, the day to day lifestyle of a nation going about its business has been put to the test, and it’s not pretty.
But, for the Baxters, and for Jean, the sure knowledge of God’s ever-present sovereignty has them feeling assured that whatever the outcomes and changes ahead, He will provide for their every need as He has in the past. They are certain of that, even in all the uncertainty.
. . .
Phil tells Ben about their adventures with the schools and kids and the feeding of the hundreds in the school cafetorium, and about Roberts carting scores of people in the Hummer, and their deciding right then and there to exit the City post-haste with the long line of others doing the same thing.
“Have you called your Super yet? How’s your place? Mine’s condemned, I hear. Won’t even be able to go in, from what Jenkins tells me, ’though he’s trying to get to my safe before they tear the place down. Imagine that. Five million dollar real estate, all paid for, and now it’s junk? You’re a block away. Same story?”
“I’m going to try to get over there after visiting you, although I don’t know how I can get through the mess. Somehow I’ll try to assess the situation. I’d like to keep it, even if we move to Massachusetts. But, who knows? Right now, who knows anything? We haven’t let the kids watch TV. What’s the latest, d’ ya know?”
“Washington’s trying to convince us there’s an outfit called Al Queda that’s responsible. They know it’s coordinated, along with another plane that hit the Pentagon and another one is in a field in rural Pennsylvania somewhere.”
“Yeah, read the Times article. Who knew? So much the Government never tells us.”
“Obviously a terrorist attack. Guess we’re in for it. From what my boys tell me, City’s shut down. No subways, barricades, all that stuff. Everybody’s on edge wondering who’s next. Can’t even imagine how they stopped air traffic in the whole country. Imagine that? How’d you get through? Musta pulled lots o’ strings to fly a chopper this close. This is a really big deal, Phil. How can they even do that, shuttin’ down the skies? Thousands of people from all over the world stranded in little Podunk Centers all over the country, missin’ weddings, job interviews, vacations, what a mess!”
“Well, the Government’s just being cautious, I suppose. Who knows what’s next? The Times says there are calls for retaliation, the sooner the better, but we don’t even know who to fight. Will tell you this, though, wish I had the corner on the market of American flags. Never saw so many flying as in the last three hours. Patriotism is alive and well. Even from jaded New Yorkers.”
. . .
“Honey, I thought I was prepared for the devastation, but I just simply stood with my jaw dropped. From the living room, I can see a mound about five stories high of girders, and concrete, and smoldering ruins. You just can’t imagine the stuff my eyes are seeing and my brain is trying to absorb. It’s tragedy times seven. Our neighborhood looks like a war zone, and if what I’m hearing, it’s all the way down to the underground Metro. Everything has collapsed into a mass of molten metal and grey mess. I can’t imagine how dangerous it is for the rescuers who are right down there in that chaos. I can see rescue dogs too. They have boots on their feet to protect them. Unbelievable. And the stench. The smoke is just acrid, even inside, although much of our inside is outside. The windows are shattered, and those wonderful drapes you hung are in tatters. I can’t begin to tell you what our place looks like. We’re just fortunate it’s still standing.
“Here’s what I told the Super. We want to have it protected from the elements as soon as he can make it happen. They’ll get a contractor in here to hang plywood. I don’t know when we can get back here, or how we can move stuff out or anything. Gotta get insurance guys in here before we can do anything. I just can’t get my head wrapped around it yet. Apparently the City is going to have to inspect all the nearby buildings for structural issues. We may lose the whole place. I know your father’s building is already condemned. No one is even allowed to go into it, it’s that unstable.
“What’s that?…Yeah, I found Pixie. She’s a nervous wreck, but I’ve got her and her cage and food and all. I’ll bring her back with me. Meanwhile, I’m thinkin’ I’ll pack some suitcases. You’ll have to wash everything, but at least we’ll have some stuff to wear. Anything particular you need for the kids?
“…K. Anything in the dryer you need?. . .Ya got large plastic bags anywhere to put more stuff in? I can probably get to the luggage, but you might want more. Specially with winter coming.
“Kinda puts stuff into perspective. What we need. What we want. What is necessary. What is just not important at all. Maybe we needed this lesson.
“I’m heading to Jean’s place next. Thought I’d get some of her clothes and stuff. The rest the movers can pack.
“Also, think I’ll stop by Saint Paul’s and volunteer some time if you can do without me for a day or so. I hear they’re feeding the masses over there. Hundreds of firemen and rescuers from all over the place are being cared for. I’m sure Pastor Tim and the staff could use some help. O.K. with you? . . .Oh, that’s a good idea. I’ll clean out the freezer and see if there’s stuff in the pantry they can use…You’re a genius, Honey. I’ll do that. I’ll do Jean’s cupboards too before I head over there.
“K. I’ll talk with you later. Hug the kids… What? …O.K.. I’ll try to find lamby. Anything else? . . Yeah, I can do that. Guess the open stuff in the fridge can all go, right? Dunno when we’ll get back here. Bless you all and I love you.”
With that call, Phil began a tour of his condo, once the pride and joy of his life, a symbol of his and Cathy’s success. All the latest furnishings, designer fabrics and finishes, world class artwork, one-of-a-kind embellishments, now reduced to dusty, tattered, and filthy surfaces. Apparently the shock waves from the initial explosions had traveled laterally, and their two-story penthouse was one of the target zones. The force of the concussion tossed chairs across the expanse, turned over tables, shattered the china cabinet and everything in it, and tumbled the Calder-style mobile from the ceiling. The chandeliers are barely suspended, with their crystals and chrome attachments strewn around the room. Cupboard doors are open and pots and pans from the pot rack in the kitchen fell to the marble slab countertops, creating cratered cracks. He can’t believe the damage.
Grabbing plastic bags from the pantry, Phil starts with Kelsey’s room. Tripping over contents of her toybox, he makes his way to her bed to find Lamby. She has adored this hand-crocheted toy from infant days and is loathe to go to bed without it safely clutched in her arms. Phil empties her dresser drawers and chooses some outfits from the closet for his little princess, then heads for Michael’s loft. First, he has to find the ladder which is flung across the room. Sure that it is still safe to climb, he ascends the six steps to Michael’s special place where he thought he was an eagle in the sky. His room was somewhat protected from the damage to the rest of the place; it faces south rather than east like the major portion of the condo. Phil captures a few favorite toys, his basic wardrobe, and a few closet items and scrapbooks he knows Cathy will appreciate having. Who knows when they’ll be back and what they’ll need. Life is in flux right now.
Then he makes his way to the master suite. Devastation. Broken glass covers their bed. Lamps are thrown across the room. The drapes and window coverings are shredded, and the everything-in-its-place look has succumbed to chaos. Even the light bulbs in the closet are shattered, so he struggles to find the suitcases stored in the cubby at the back of the once-well-ordered space. Figuring he might need a couple of good outfits, he grabs two suits and a whole bunch of shirts. He has no idea if anything he is hastily packing will match. He can’t see much. Then he addresses Cathy’s side of the closet, knowing she’ll need some of the things on the two-tiered hanging bars. Her usual well-put-together signature look might be anything but, but at least she’ll have something to wear, he figures.
When he is sure he can’t fit anything else into the suitcases, he urges them shut and gathers his goodies by the elevator entrance. The Super told him the generators would keep the penthouse elevators working, so he is counting on that assurance. He surely isn’t going to haul this stuff down the stairwell. One bag of foodstuff is trash. He throws that down the refuse chute.
He uses every available container to empty the pantry, fridge and freezer. This will all go to the church to help feed the hoards.
By now Pixie is howling, he is sweating, and with one more look toward Ground Zero, he and his hunched shoulders leave what has been their home for eight years.
He moves on to Jean’s place, gets the Super to let him into her third-floor walkup, and gathers clothes and belongings he knows she’ll need. He empties her fridge and garbage, sends open stuff down the refuse slot in the hall, and bags the rest for St. Paul’s. He makes four trips up and down the stairs adding her stuff to the packed van’s treasures. Who knows when someone will be back to move the rest of her belongings. He’s called the movers, but the waiting list is growing by the hour. She has until the end of November to empty the apartment. At least now she has a place to go.
. . .
Onward to Saint Paul’s.
The scene at St. Paul’s is organized chaos. Phil enters with supplies from his condo and Jean’s apartment: boxes of pasta, cans of sauces, spices, boxes of cereal, a whole pantry full of foods he’ll never eat now that the condo is uninhabitable. Then he brings a sizable bag filled with frozen food from his side-by-side fridge. Maybe it will come in handy here. He certainly couldn’t leave it where it was. Workers excitedly look through the supplies, eager to add to their meager offerings to feed so many for so long. Phil helps them find room to store things, rolls up his sleeves, and gets to work.
With sorrow, Phil sees exhausted firemen and rescuers sprawled on the oak pews, using their helmets as pillows, trying to find a few minutes’ rest before going back to work. The rescue mission will probably soon be declared recovery, although some hold out hope of survivors. That hope is fading fast, and the mood darkens with each passing hour.
A makeshift food line snakes its way around the corridors, manned by exhausted volunteers who appear one after another to help. A wall of sorrow and hope intertwined begins at one end of the wrought-iron fence with pictures, posters, ribbons, and, sadly, stuffed animals and toys, an s”s, heading upstate to hug his family, thankful for that hope.
Next, he winds his way up the West Side Highway. The van is filled with bags, suitcases, every kind of container. Phil faces a nighttime drive north. Even after midnight traffic is a nightmare.”
My blog today is compilation of stories I’ve researched surrounding 9.11. It makes the situation so very real when one reads the first person accounts. I use the stories in my book to show that even in tragedy, God can bring good. To this fictional family, their new life at Whispering Woods results from the horrendous events of 9.11.2001. The book is a testimony to God’s mercy and sovereignty.
Find information at www.bettyjackson.net and at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pz_MPtvkiKY
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