Start Reading

Copyright © 2006, 2011 by Leslie Haskin

The material in this book is adapted from Between Heaven and Ground Zero by Leslie Haskin

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.

ISBN 978-1-4412-7068-9

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com

Scripture quotations identified NKJV are from the New King James Version of the Bible. Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.

Cover design by Dan Pitts

TO FIREFIGHTERS

AND POLICE OFFICERS

EVERYWHERE . . .

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

A Note to the Reader

Introduction

PART ONE: In the Beginning

Chapter 1: Eight Million Stories

Chapter 2: September 11

Chapter 3: Tower One

Chapter 4: . . . and the Super Ego

Chapter 5: Strike One

Chapter 6: Step-by-Step

PART TWO: The Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter 7: Strike Two

Chapter 8: Exit Center

Chapter 9: War Zone

Chapter 10: The Birth of Inspiration

Chapter 11: Goliath Falls

Chapter 12: It Is Finished

Chapter 13: Going Home

About the Author

Timeline of September 11, 2001

Back Cover

A Note to the Reader

The story of September 11, 2001, is very complex. It involves seven massive buildings, thousands of people, psychological, emotional, and physical distress, and possibly twenty thousand personal accounts of that day.

This is just one of them.

I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.

Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, is a psychiatric disorder that can come about after one has experienced or witnessed life-threatening events like war, natural disasters, terrorist incidents, or violent personal assaults.

There are many symptoms to this disorder. Most of mine involved the psycho-physiological changes associated with PTSD like hyper-arousal of the sympathetic nervous system, flashbacks, increased sensitivity of the startle reflex, memory loss, and sleep abnormalities. There were others, but these affected me most.

Exposure therapy and drug treatments are most common. My treatments involved medication and a very aggressive treatment called eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR), which involves having the patient repeatedly relive the experience under controlled conditions to help work through the trauma.

I assure you that it is extremely difficult to take.

Along with treatment, and to help me first remember and then process what I remembered, I began keeping a journal. These pages represent what I recorded in my journal. By no means is it intended to represent the complete story or historical data. There are still many facts missing—pieces that I might never have to connect the dots—but this is what I remember and what I feel. I hope it brings something valuable to your life.

Continue in God’s grace. . . .

Leslie

Introduction

It begins.

On the clear and sunny morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, terrorists murdered more than twenty-seven hundred people in an attack on New York City.

Thousands died when at the height of the morning rush, an American Airlines-piloted missile slammed into Tower One of the World Trade Center.

It was first blood.

President Bush vowed that terrorism “will not stand,” “God Bless America” was quickly reinstated as our song, American flags decorated our porches, and thousands of American households finally fell asleep each night to the white noise of TV Land and I Love Lucy.

Life changed for all of America in a matter of a few grave moments between a deviant cockpit and the ninety-fifth floor.

I have lived and relived those moments at least a million times. A million times lost and searching for words to describe what happened on the inside—the torment and vulnerability, the confusion, the carnage, and the sheer visceral terror of it all. I struggle still in my description of witnessing the heart of humanity colliding with gravity and of dreams of the slaughtered Twin Towers covered in dust and blood while a somber last breath cries for justice.

Nothing in my life prepared me for what I lived through, and I will never forget . . . those stairs . . . the smells . . . those sounds . . . the faces of the people.

My soul yet sings its solemn song, and the severity of that day pours through these pages like a stream . . . so brace yourself.

Every one of us who lived that day has a story to tell about that day, where the terror began and when the nightmare ended.

This is my story, not intended to be a political statement or a means to achieve any bit of self-promotion, false enlightenment, or self-interest. My objective here is to be a gentle light to a world I view as searching.

My hope in this is to speak to all those left with questions and those still mourning—that your faith might be restored. My prayer is that through your grief, anger, consternation, confusion, or resolve, the Lord opens the eyes of your heart so that you will see the hope of His calling. For it is in the midst of uncertainty that the sound of His voice and the silence that follows quiets your inhibitions, and you receive comfort and then clarity, deliverance, and then closure.

Amen.

PART ONE

In the Beginning

Chapter 1

Eight Million Stories

One Song

It doesn’t matter what brings us to that place, only that we get there and what we leave owning.

—AUTHOR UNKNOWN

February 20, 2005

1:30 p.m.

It was cold outside. The earth gave off gray nuances and the sun’s rays teased the sky. I love the way it looks when God’s breath meets with mine in the open air—something so big joining with something so small to create a vapor so eternal. It reminds me that life is the only idea of something I can touch. It moves me beyond words—at least now it does.

I got off the PATH train at the place where it all began. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Nothing happened in particular . . . not really. Except that when my brain registered the location of my body and my foot hit the platform, forty-two months of spirits and fear, and anger, and hope and pain and surrender, and guilt, and confusion and resolve, and confrontation and nightmares, and every prayer that ever was prayed for me collided in my world. They landed square on my shoulders, collapsed me at the knees, and delivered me to 8:46 a.m. on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. I smelled it all . . . all over again, and I wanted to puke.

I looked around. It was all so familiar and yet nothing was as I remembered. I could place every building and every person exactly as they last were. For four hours I walked around that enormous, conflicting tomb, begging the cosmos to infuse me with some answers that made even a tiny bit of sense. I watched the mounds of dirt breathe, half expecting them to give birth to two towers . . . as if Rome was built in a day.

Crowds of people gathered around that empty lot. Correction, hundreds gawked at an empty tomb. Wait a minute, at a place like this there are no “mere” people. There are artists creating, writing rhymes, making music and song. There are no individuals, just stories. They say eight million of them compose this naked city. Mine is now a song that bellows and respires in the air, is unintelligible in dreams, and somehow gains vibrato in the open catacombs of Tower One of the World Trade Center.

For this is where I died . . .

This is where I was I born.

This song is the one that I was created to sing.

. . . it took me forever to get

here.

Chapter 2

September 11

Perfect in Beauty

The Mighty One, God, the Lord, speaks and summons the earth from the rising of the sun to the place where it sets. From Zion, perfect in beauty, God shines forth.

—PSALM 50:1–2

September 11, 2001

5:15 a.m.

It was more than a beautiful morning. The sun was already beginning to show her face over the mountains near my home and the sky was a brilliant blue. The kind of blue you see in island waters that once glanced, imprints itself a lasting image. Birds were singing and the wind was calm and gentle with the scent of fresh flowers and cleanly cut grass. The air was stimulating. Everything was alive! It was the kind of day that inspired being in love and the appreciation of love. It was a day that brought beauty to perfection.

I wanted to skip going to the office that day. I wanted to play hooky and relax in my garden or take a long drive through the mountains to enjoy God’s wonder. But duty called.

My days often began early and ended late. It only bothered me on days like these. I would have much preferred sneakers, jeans, and a T-shirt to the Barami suit and one-inch designer pumps I was wearing. It would have pleased me immensely to pack a picnic basket. Instead, I was stuffing my laptop into its ugly black bag and readying myself for the office. The hour was getting late so I got dressed and reluctantly drove to the train station.

6:20 a.m.

Train 1

The station was only seventeen minutes from my home. The views of the mountains between here and there are spectacular. The trees are like picture-perfect heads of broccoli seated at the foot of heaven. The blue sky provides a magnificent canvas.

Usually I enjoyed the drive—sixty-five miles per hour in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone along a country road. Usually it was invigorating. Usually jazz radio provided the ambience for my early-morning escape. This morning, however, there were better things to do than take that particular drive and go into the city. Hence, it was a punishment and it seemed to take forever.

Commuting was like work in itself and nothing to look forward to; at best, it could be taxing. I lived about two hours from my office and had to take two trains to get there. Both trains demanded skill and good timing to ride successfully, and after eight years of practice, my timing was still not the best. I pulled into the station just as the train arrived.

Every morning it screeched into my station almost empty. By the second stop, it filled with a cast of colorful characters.

Jack, the conductor, knew all of the everyday riders by name. He was a friendly thirty-five-year-plus railroad veteran whom most thought to be a workaholic. He worked two jobs, ran his own limousine company, never took a sick day, and worked half of his vacation time. Kudos to Jack, because at nearly seventy, his energy was inspiring.

The ride into the city was always uneventful; there was never anything new. We had only to look forward to the same worn leather seats, the same smell of newspaper, and the same cliques of riders. The more popular ones sat in the middle of the train car every day so as not to miss anything. They were the ones in the know. They were the ones who started and ran the rumor mill, laughed the loudest, and tried desperately to create a commuter vibe. They were the ones who, between my naps, kept me amused.

I remember three of them very well. Jan was a young, impressionable legal assistant who likely believed that the louder she talked the more probable it was that she was right. She was a tall, slender woman with dark hair. Most of the men smiled when she sat near them.

Lorna was another commuter. A financial advisor and my favorite to watch, this beautiful plus-sized woman wore her makeup and hair flawlessly styled. Judging from all the advice she gave, she was gold at heart. Her laugh was contagious.

Finally, there was Paul. He stood about five-foot-seven, one hundred fifty pounds—a reasonably attractive “professional commuter.” No one really knew exactly what he did for a living, but every morning he boarded the train and announced his arrival by greeting every woman within earshot with a smile and a copy of his pay stub—not really, but when all else fails . . .

There were others, of course, but none quite as entertaining or that I enjoyed more. These few invested a lot in surviving the everyday madness of commuter travel. I respected their determination to take it all in stride.

I like to think that somehow I remained outside the “center stage” of the commuter regulars—safely set apart and just watching. On occasion, though, I might have been in the middle of it all.

I am a peculiar sort. Unlike many others, my personality does not match my chosen career. They are, in fact, literal opposites that nonetheless complement the two very strong aspects of my “self.”

On the one hand, I am a thinker and quite cerebral. I am an evaluator with a very low tolerance for anything destructive, especially people. I am candid, introspective, and quite often misunderstood. In other words, I can be opinionated. On the other hand, I am an easygoing, lively risk-taker who loves life and appreciates most things that give me a challenge. I love laughter and walking in the mountains. I am strong, grounded, and I fear nothing . . . well, maybe birds. I have struggled with asthma since childhood but at every opportunity will defy even that. I am a fighter. I stand about five feet tall with a somewhat athletic build. I have big eyes, a broad face, and when I am awake, I am usually smiling.

I enjoy quiet time. So for me, commuting time, unlike the core group, was nap time. I always sat alone and spread out over the large Amtrak-ish seats, rested my head on the very cold, hard window, and snored.

This was my routine, my crew, and my mornings. It was my life every Monday through Friday of every week in every month of every year. I was a commuter, like it or not.

7:58 a.m.

Train 2

When I arrived at the Hoboken train terminal, people were already racing for the next PATH train. The “PATH,” the second and final train in my long haul into the city, connects New Jersey transit lines to the New York City subway system. It went directly into the subfloors of the World Trade Center. Our office was on the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth floors of the north tower, known as Tower One.

Anxious commuters check their watches every two minutes and pack the platform in wait. As bizarre as it is, they stand close to the platform’s edge and lean in to be the first to spot a train that screams when it arrives. They rush forward at first sight, then back away from the tracks as the train pulls in.

New York trains are infamous for “pushers.” Most people push to get on and get a seat, and then push their way off to be first on the escalators. I always felt it best to stand near a door and let the surge take me both ways.

Riding this rail is an adventure, to put it mildly. It is always crowded, late, and smelly. The floors are sometimes sticky and littered with “God only knows what.” It is best compared to New York City itself . . . in motion . . . somewhat difficult to describe. It is the perfect contradiction: It is glamorous and degenerate, cultured and crude, beautiful and detestable, ethical and decadent, exciting and scary all at the same time.

The PATH, like downtown Manhattan Island, is a stage for the homeless. They find their audience here and perform through their hunger. In watching, I am both confused and bothered by their signs. And the Negro spirituals that flow from the mouths of these dirty-blond men embarrass me.

That morning the train filled as always. I squeezed on just before the door closed. The person on my right gave me a dirty look as the not so very gentle man on my left gave me a shove. I assumed their disapproval but ignored them both. It was a short ride, not worth the fight, just fifteen minutes tops to the World Trade Center, the train’s last stop and our liberation.

Chapter 3

Tower One

The “It,” the Ego . . .

Their land is full of silver and gold; there is no end to their treasures. Their land is full of horses; there is no end to their chariots. Their land is full of idols; they bow down to the work of their hands, to what their fingers have made.

—ISAIAH 2:7–8

8:10 a.m.

All Towers

I loved working at the World Trade Center, with its regal towers. I loved the convenience and status of it all: the shops, restaurants, and tourists who came from all over the world to see its unique majesty. I basked in the pampering of daily concerts on the plaza and activities around the huge fountains. I never tired of it.

Architecturally, the World Trade Center was the union of seven buildings connected by an above-street plaza and a concourse. The most famous of these buildings were the Twin Towers, or the “Twins.” These were incredible and massive giants. They stood more than thirteen hundred feet high, with 110 floors. About nine million square feet of office space housed more than fifty thousand workers and served more than seventy thousand visitors on any given day. The main lobby of the towers boasted tons of beautiful windows spanning more than one hundred feet from floor to ceiling.

Its marble floors and walls were astounding, rising toward extravagant chandeliers that caught rays of natural light and generously distributed it into otherwise obscure or unworthy lobby corners. This was a grand building, tasteful, exquisite, and beaming from the light of the sun.

Outside each entrance were beautiful stone flower planters, almost as grand as the building itself. Designers created every planter, using polished stone and seasonal flowers, the scent of which, when riding a subtle breeze, was in itself masterful.

The concourse was home to several delis, restaurants, and all the finer shops like Louis Vuitton, Tourneau, Barami, and others. Once inside you could walk for miles, shop, eat, and socialize without ever going outside. The strong walls of the concourse were massive and decorated with fine art, advertisements, and everything that was New York—sweeter than an apple and bigger than big city blues.

If you have never been to the Trade Center, then you’ve been cheated. If you have, then you’re most likely still there. This was an unforgettable place. Unmistakably built to captivate and maintained to seduce.

Walking through the World Trade Center during the morning rush was much the same as walking through the World Trade Center at night or midday. It was always busy with people.

The Twins housed nearly three hundred businesses. They were home to law firms, insurance houses, brokerage firms, government agencies, entertainment management companies, and other businesses wanting that prestigious address. Most offices began their day at about 7:30 with dedicated employees at their desks and working. It was almost a privilege. This was a warm, welcoming house of natural stones, metal, and glass, and it was busy . . . always.

By 8:00, there were already thousands of workers, shoppers, and adoring fans rushing who knows where. The sound of hustling feet resonated through the concourse and outlasted the sound of their unintelligible conversations.

That morning was no exception. There were early-bird tourists taking pictures and excited hotel guests looking for maps and asking questions. Most stores were open and people were already browsing. Breakfast meetings were underway and the aroma of deli food mingled with the smell of detergent as maintenance personnel busied themselves with their work.

From every corner of the concourse, one could see vendors just outside doors, intruding on time with their cloth-covered tables bearing an assortment of what they called “goods” for sale. They sold everything imaginable—fruit, clothes, jewelry, shoes, and even electronics.

Celebrities, politicians, and international tourists frequented this place. It was one of New York’s finest. It was awe-inspiring, and like the day, it was a masterpiece, beautiful and alive.

8:23 a.m.

I stepped quickly through the crowd and to my favorite deli. It was located on the lower level of the Trade Center near the PATH’s exit, so there was always a line. Sam, the owner, was waiting for me with my usual cranberry muffin and hazelnut coffee. I made my purchase and then made my way up the escalators and to the elevators.

I often played a little game with myself as I approached the lobby doors. I would count my footsteps in contrast to the person walking next to me. I liked the rhythm it produced—nothing important really, just something my friends would call a Leslie-ism.

That morning, security staffed their stations as they always did, precisely and expertly. They stood with their intentional smiles, directing visitors here and there and asking to see access badges—nothing extraordinary.

I walked with my usual arrogant and confident strut, swinging my laptop bag and firmly gripping my coffee. My mind wandered a bit in anticipation of hazelnut flavoring and cranberries. As I approached the lobby, I swiped my security pass and jumped onto the already crowded elevator. I did this much like I boarded the train, just before the door closed. I got the same looks of disapproval and ignored them just the same. I felt lucky that morning because some kind someone didn’t let the door close in my face. To me, that was a sign it was going to be a great day.

Chapter 4

. . . and the Super Ego

Above It All

My company’s office space was a beautiful example of an over-inflated facilities budget. The reception area, located directly in front of the elevator bank, was separated by etched glass doors and decorated with large floor plants and fresh flowers delivered weekly. Natural wood-grained furniture was consistent throughout the more than forty thousand square feet on each floor. Equal in extravagance were the bathroom tiles flown in from Italy.

Like every other floor in the tower, we had floor-to-ceiling windows about two feet wide, separated by narrower columns. Even from ten feet away, one could look out and into the skies or look down on the city and feel above it all. That’s how working in the towers felt . . . above it all.

Cubicles, or “cubes,” varying in size and location, engaged most of our office space. They were symmetrical, but cleverly positioned so as not to intrude on management’s tasteful and luxurious corner office views. Underwriting assistants occupied most of the cubes. There was no rhyme or reason to assigning them, except maybe the more overambitious the manager, the larger the assistant’s space. The cubes just outside of the executive offices were most coveted. They had breathtaking views of the city and were a sign of success and power.

My assistant’s cube was directly in front of the northeast-facing window.

One of only two African-American directors in the northeast region, I headed the operations department for one of the largest insurance companies in the country. My division was comprised of facilities, management information systems, branch services, about one-third of the underwriting staff, and their underwriting assistants. I had a big title, a bigger salary, and a huge ego.

I like to think that I managed my staff with fairness and that they liked me. The truth is, my arrogance probably overshadowed my sense of fair play in most situations and my staff hated to see me coming.

See that you are not troubled; for all these things must come to pass, but the end is not yet. For nation will rise against nation and kingdom against kingdom. And there will be famines, pestilences, and earthquakes in various places. All these things are the beginning of sorrows. (Matthew 24:6–8 nkjv)

And so . . . my day begins.

8:28 a.m.

I got off the elevator on the thirty-sixth floor and walked the few hundred feet from reception through common office space and to my private office. I did that morning as I always did, with a swift purposeful strut. I paused only for the usual forced smiles, nods, and good mornings. I took mental note of those working and those pretending to work in order that I might later make someone’s day with a big project that afforded them no time for pretense.

No sooner had I powered up my computer and begun checking my e-mails, when my phone rang. This was typical of my mornings. I ignored it. Everyone knew I wasn’t alive until after my first full cup of coffee. I sat, delighted by the smell, and quietly sipped in the morning.

Approximately 8:43 a.m.

A few sips of coffee later, I decided to go over to my very envied assistant’s desk for some quick answers. I knew from the night before that a problem with one of our major policyholders needed resolution. The idea was to appease my need to be in control and to get an explanation simple enough so as not to complicate my breakfast.

I liked keeping these types of exchanges short and to the point. We traded pleasantries and got to the problem at hand. In mid-sentence, suddenly and without warning, the building shook violently and thunder came from within. It swayed back and forth slowly for a few seconds, as if riding a calm wave, and then stopped. It paralyzed any fair semblance of time.

From that precise second, time was both accelerated and suspended.

Chapter 5

Strike One

Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior

Disaster will come upon you, and you will not know how to conjure it away. A calamity will fall upon you that you cannot ward off with a ransom; a catastrophe you cannot foresee will suddenly come upon you.

—ISAIAH 47:11

I was eighteen years old when cancer claimed my mother’s life. It was a fight to the finish and she was a most worthy opponent.

Momma, or “Madea” as she was lovingly called, was short in stature but a giant in personality. She had a beautiful light tan complexion and the deepest eyes I had ever seen as a child. Still now, there are no comparisons. It sounds cliché, but her smile could awaken the stars at noon. Her effortless and natural love for life and people radiated through her presence. It could overwhelm at times—at least it did me.

She was playful and enjoyed the practical jokes she pulled on each of her children. Equal to her playful nature was the fight in her. She was strong and steadfast in her convictions with a faith in God that was without question or condition. Her faith was her legacy.

It was Momma’s huge voice and love for music that directed our church choir. Her voice was as big and as beautiful as she was—and when she sang, Momma sang! Her soulful, raspy voice grabbed you in the gut and made you know “There is a God.” Sometimes her voice floated around in my head for hours, singing: “Pass me not, O gentle Savior . . . Hear my humble cry . . . While on others Thou art calling . . . Do not pass me by.”

Sometimes on Saturday mornings she would sit in front of her piano, playing without restraint and singing. Her hands glided effortlessly, tickling the ivories, with her eyes closed and head tossed back. She would sing until the neighbors woke up. We call it praise and worship today. Back then, it was simply disturbing the peace. “Leslie,” she’d say, “praise God always, in good and bad times, because we know that all things work together for good to them that love Him.”

I hated hearing that. I hated that she forced me to learn to play the piano, and I hated having a mother stronger than a riptide direct from the ocean floor in mid-August. I defied her at every turn, but she forced her wisdom on me. She forced me to listen, and somehow I learned.

I learned from her songs, her family meetings, and her unique ability to feed her children the cold, hard truth and somehow make it okay. Her arms were our safe place. We knew that when we were there, nothing could harm us, not even life.

I would love nothing better than to honestly say that I went quickly to my safe place in that moment the north tower shook, or that I sensed my mother’s presence with me, but I didn’t. I had no senses at all except for those in my feet, which by now were exacting downward as the once stable floor beneath them was in full tilt.

The sound and feel of the impact were indivisible. It was huge. The thunder replaced the beat of my heart. The building rocked from side to side. People swore as they lost their footing and stumbled. Most were already in tears. I was shaking and disoriented.

Loud bangs resonated from the north side of the office. Each time they were so sudden and so random that I nearly jumped out of my skin. There was a nonstop, horrible shriek of what sounded like scratching, stretching, or bending metal. It was like some morbid underscore for an Alfred Hitchcock psycho-thriller . . . only worse. It was unnerving then, and I still cringe at the thought of it. It would be years before I could communicate that sound without complete withdrawal.

The windows were shaking, and glass exploded from everywhere. Those gorgeous natural wood-grained desks, chairs, and symbols of status went right out the window, literally. They violently and in succession freed themselves through our once sealed and privileged views. Impositions of air whistled in whirlwinds and stole all that remained of usable air. Panic was instantaneous.

Unintelligible conversations familiar to the concourse now intruded on office decorum. I heard crying from every direction—from behind walls, underneath desks and tables, and even open corners. Most peculiar were the almost inaudible whimpers from behind elevator doors.

“It was a bomb,” someone called. The floor began buckling. “Get out! Get out.” “The building is coming down!” someone else shouted. It was only seconds before the mad dash toward the exits began.

I turned to my assistant. The place where she sat was empty. I turned again and watched her trembling body run for the exit while mine stood motionless at that window, paralyzed by the once beautiful sight of the sky. I stood there listening to debris falling from above, banging against the sides of the building, and filling the sky with all sizes of shredded paper, stone, furniture, and people. It was the ugliest and the most dreadful thing I had ever witnessed.

My mind tried desperately to find words my heart could understand. I didn’t know anything in that moment . . . I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think. All I could do was stand there. It was like watching a snowstorm with all sizes of weird and distorted flakes, burying me. It was like a blizzard, or a parade. It was confusing and obvious, and terrifying and breathtaking . . . all at once. It was . . . it was gray confetti . . . almost. I was lost in those moments.

Then almost in slow motion, that beautiful blue sky choked to death on a horrible smoke that filled the air until outside the window was nothing more than a gigantic dark gathering place for lost souls.

My heart stopped.

A rush of adrenaline shot up through me. I felt as if I had run a marathon or twenty miles uphill. My heart pounded so hard that it hurt. My breath was short and quick. I felt lightheaded—like I was suffocating. I watched things fall off the desks, I think. I think. . . .

Wet. Warm and wet. Urine ran down the side of my leg when someone shouted, “The ceiling is caving.” I felt anxious. Then I heard moaning. It was too close for it to have been anyone but me. I grabbed my arm and told myself to move . . . move . . . move . . . Leslie.

My knees were weak beneath me. My legs struggled just to keep standing. My mind could not process what I wanted my body to do. My fingers tingled, and my heart leaped through my chest. My mouth was dry. My lips sealed. It felt like the floor had already begun to give way. Was it really sinking? I was queasy and overwhelmed by a feeling that I had never felt before. Whatever it was, it formed a scream that started deep inside my belly. It was big and bottomless and I could feel it growing—getting bigger, until it was bigger than the objects falling outside the windows. It tunneled through me . . . and then . . . stopped at my lips.

I felt very strange, detached from myself. I looked at my hands and my arms. I saw them, but I didn’t really see them. They didn’t look familiar. My legs looked fake. I couldn’t figure them out. I thought, “What the . . . these aren’t my hands. . . . This isn’t me.” I want to say that it was then that I moved toward the open windows . . . but I can’t be sure. I heard myself talking, but my voice was inside my chest and pounding through some long tunnel. My words seemed muffled. I remember now that I kept making sounds, trying to hear “me.” I was so removed, nothing seemed real. I felt discombobulated, like I was . . . I was floating . . . apart from everything . . . unattached . . . distant . . . lost.

Then all of a sudden, I felt nothing. My body went completely numb.

I walked zombie-like into my office and picked up the telephone. I wanted to call my cousin Ronnie. I’m not sure why. He’s a smart man. Maybe I wanted him to explain all of this to me. He’s strong, fearless, and protective. Maybe I thought he could defend me from whatever it was that was attacking me. He loved me. Maybe he could stop the pain. I needed to find some control somewhere and maybe, just maybe, I could somehow return the morning to normalcy or steal courage through his voice. Whatever the reason, I tried dialing him, but the connection failed.

The building swayed again and then settled. Looking back, it never really righted itself again. I hung up the phone and redialed.

From the corner of my eye, I could see frantic colleagues running in all directions, cussing and screaming. Again, someone shouted to me, “Leslie, what the [expletive] are you doing? Get the [expletive] out of here. This [expletive] building is coming down.” I calmly hung up the phone and left my office. I left my life.

The journey began.

Hear my cry for mercy as I call to you for help, as I lift up my hands toward your Most Holy Place. Do not drag me away with the wicked, with those who do evil, who speak cordially with their neighbors but harbor malice in their hearts. Repay them for their deeds and for their evil work; repay them for what their hands have done and bring back upon them what they deserve. (Psalm 28:2–4)

Chapter 6

Step-by-Step

Deeper Into Darkness

Journal Entry

October 16, 2001

Ariella wants me to start journaling. I guess it’s supposed to help me “process” . . . yea right. That’s Ronnie’s thing . . . not mine . . . and he’s crazier than I am! Anyway, invisible friend, my therapy moves to New Paltz today . . . Ariella won’t be coming here to talk anymore. Yippee. Yippee. I’m going to tell her that the Prozac makes me feel funny. I hate it. We’re supposed to start EMDR today. She wants to know if I’m ready . . . that’s stupid. Of course I’m not ready. I’m never ready. I don’t know why she keeps pushing this EMDR stuff. Nothing’s gonna help—especially not tapping my legs while I talk. She’s a good therapist though. I like her. Never thought I’d be talking to one though. I probably needed to a long time ago. I’m not so sure she really gets it. She wants me to take her there in my mind, but I’d rather NOT!!!! Get over it. Get over it. Get over it. I know that’s what everybody thinks I should do . . . but I should feel this for the rest of my life. I would laugh if this whole thing weren’t so pathetic and sad. . . . I can’t even think straight anymore. I’m just gonna walk in there today and tell her to shove all of her degrees and pills and everything else . . . MS goody . . . goody. Somebody please help me . . . please please please please. I’m not ready to die!

God??? I need to be back by 2:30. Eliot gets home and . . . I hate this!!! I hate this whole thing!!!!!!—Even writing in this stupid book!!

I noticed Steve, the underwriting director, running toward the exit with something tucked underneath his arm. He looked at me as he passed. It was odd seeing him run like that. He had a look on his face as if he was going to be sick. Mary Alice was behind him. She was screaming and cussing for everybody to get out of the building.

The office became more and more deserted as the seconds ticked by. The smoke got thicker, and people were just running to get away. The explosions were so loud and so threatening. There were no distractions or independent course of action in what we were doing. We wanted out, and nobody stopped to try to figure things out or pick up anything that was dropped. Most left behind keys, jackets, purses. . . .

We left our lives.

Bhranti, a soft-spoken and always pleasant underwriting assistant, sat at her desk redressing her feet with walking shoes. She sat amidst her many family photos, and her eyes traveled quickly between the now emptying office and pictures of her children, weddings, birthdays, and family “fun” shots. Her eyes lifted as I approached her desk. She drew her lips away from her teeth in a narrow, insecure smile. I watched her composure change in her shaking hands. Looking back, I can only imagine what her thoughts must have been.

I waited for her, and we walked calmly toward the exit as if this mass exodus were a normal or expected occurrence. I noticed Bhranti glance back. Neither of us considered the gravity of our situation, nor did we speak of it. It seemed safer not to. Instead, our words blended until our conversation knotted into a bland and dull monologue. “Good morning, Bhranti.” “Hi, Leslie . . . what happened?” “I don’t know . . . maybe an earthquake.” “Ha ha ha . . . an earthquake . . . wow . . . is Millie still in the bathroom?” “I don’t think so.” “Do you think I should bring my purse?” “Nah, it should be okay.”

It went something like that, only more like chatter. We were of like minds on autopilot, able to see and understand only the exit signs and following the crowd. Again she glanced back. We never imagined that we would not return to our office. It was never a thought in our moments of bewilderment and forced exit that the city beneath us was in total chaos and suffering through a marriage of vulnerability and horror.

We had no idea that directly above us a plane had crashed into the building, leaving hundreds already dead and countless others praying for last rites. On impact, and just a few floors up from where we had sat seconds before, some of our colleagues had already been snatched from their seats and tossed like rag dolls into the open sky. My friends were hanging on to thin windowsills and making phone calls to say good-bye to their families. Lives interrupted.

Hundreds of would-be evacuees were desperately searching for acceptable escape routes, digging holes through walls, racing through corridors, and transferring from one stairway to another to avoid the large holes where floors were missing or in flames.

As we approached the central stairwell, the ceiling started to collapse into the reception area. An explosion forced fire through closed elevators doors with an angry swoosh, and the screaming metal sound got louder. I had never seen fire so angry. I never knew it was so loud. The crackling alone was deafening.

The cries that came from behind the twisted metal of bleeding elevator doors pierced my brain. People plunged to their deaths when cables melted from the heat. Others trapped in those suffocating lifts burned to death as flames shot down broken shafts. The sounds were bone-chilling.

I think Bhranti finally associated the sounds with what was happening, because she started to come unglued.

“It’s okay, Bhranti. We’ll be fine,” I said, still on autopilot and still with no cognizant thoughts. I think I heard myself speak. I think I believed what I said.

There was only one exit available to us. We waited a few minutes until there was room enough for us to enter. It was a long, dark, and narrow stairway that we, like the others before us, forced our way into single file. There was only enough space for two people per step. So crammed and desperate, we walked like tightly wound robots—stiff and unresponsive, down stairs that led only deeper into the inconceivable. Every face carried a blank look, absent from its body.

At first there was an eerie silence in those stairs—a stillness with a quiet adrenaline and uneasy calmness that was really too calm. I noticed every infinitesimal detail, and my awareness followed every sound closely. The anxiety I felt isolated every footstep and amplified every breath. Every pant and every heartrending whimper etched in my mind.

Picture this. The stairwell was more like a movie set. The lighting, probably coming from emergency generators, was sparse and dim to none. It somehow stretched down the stairs and gave notice to moisture that settled on the scuffed and now smoke-stained walls. Dingy water dripped from busted pipes and through breaks in the cement ceilings, creating a constant flow down already slick stairs. The sound echoed. The railings—warm and covered by chipped metal paint—were lined with hands of all colors, like an assembly line.

The heat was insufferable, and the smell of the smoke was horrible—rancid. This was no ordinary smoke. It smelled of chemicals, rusted metal, and burning hair; fabric, flesh, inconceivable things. This was powerful, pungent, and fuel-saturated. It was thick and acidic, and burned badly in our throats and eyes, tingled on our skin.

Corporately, our thoughts were of surviving, so we pressed through it all. We descended slowly and stopped at almost every landing to make room for others entering the stairs. Slower still we moved to the left or to the right to accommodate the injured or avoid large puddles and holes.

At one point, there was a woman burned to the bone. It is mind-blowing to see how thin and sensitive skin really is. I could actually see the ivory marrow. We tried not to stare. But as she passed, tears rolled and mouths fell open. “Oh, my God,” I heard someone say. The burned woman trembled uncontrollably. What was left of her flesh looked like it had been boiled. It was actually slipping off her body . . . just hanging there . . . loose. She was in total shock. Her arms were stiff and stretched out in front of her as if she were imitating a sleepwalker. Her escort held her very gently and led her down the stairs. She never looked at a soul.

What kind of motherless soul can so easily and savagely murder thousands and proclaim it all to be in the name of righteousness? What kind of righteousness annihilates lives with such contempt and in such grand scope that it leaves an entire world in mourning? This woman had a life.

A few flights down, I guess near the twenty-seventh floor, an Asian man positioned himself at the entrance of his office. He was clearly terrified, and he yelled for us to leave the stairs. He and his colleague ran back and forth from an open window to the stairs, as if measuring the degree of devastation from one place to the other. He yelled that he had heard of fires beneath us and that it was too dangerous to continue downward. He suggested, no, urged us to join him and his colleague and wait for help.

Neither he nor I really knew what was ahead. I stared at him through my burning eyes and considered accepting his offer. He stared back nervously. I started to move toward him, but the momentum from the crowd behind pushed me on. I had no choice but to go with the flow. I followed.

Uncertainty is that seamless monster of polarity that obliterates us all. There was no sure way to go and no clear answers. There were no fire alarms, sirens, or signals to warn us of what lay ahead. Fear was our god, confusion our master, and we—those “fortunate” enough to be packed in the stairwell—were bound together by that god, descending deeper and deeper into the unknown, the arms of a waiting enemy we could not see.

Somewhere about the twenty-fifth floor, and after several halts in our descent, a woman began to cry. It had a rippling effect. First one, then another, until before long the sounds of weeping women raced up the stairs faster than we could go down. Their cries sparked conversations and speculations that incited more fear.

I believe there is no worse predicament than the union of ignorance and peril. Somehow, seeing and knowing your enemy gives a little more hope. This was hopeless. My heart pounded faster and harder in my chest.

As more speculation entered, all rational thought exited. Rumor suggested that a small airplane had “accidentally” crashed into the building. Others said it was an earthquake, and, of course, some swore it was a bomb. We had no idea against what or whom we were fighting.

Whatever we did see and endure in those stairs, we were the lucky ones. For some, there were no stairs and no exit at all.

As more people filed into the stairwell, so did more hearsay and more tales of horror and narrowly averted disaster. There were hundreds of people before us and still hundreds more behind us, all of them in a frenzied passion, wanting to live to tell their story.

Flight after agonizing flight I listened to conjecture, wailing, and the “what-ifs” and “could-haves.” Flight after torturous flight I heard the cries of tormented victims trapped and warning of something fierce, daunting, and unspeakable catching up to us.

I think I was afraid. I know I was outside of myself. At that point, I could easily have just died and gone to heaven, had I not been bound for hell. Swallowing, I closed my eyes, and for the first time since the day began, I reached for my mother’s legacy and prayed: “God, help us”—three words, three simple words that made all the difference in the world; three words that changed the course and consequences of my entire life, because they changed me.

I often wonder how many prayers flooded the gates of heaven that day. How many Christians, or otherwise, called on the Lord? How many Jews looked for the Almighty? How many others called, by whatever name, on the one true God? How many nonbelievers, if only for a moment, and if only to ask how this could happen, believed in Him and called on His name: “Jesus”?

I met Michael when I worked for the Bank of New York. I was moving on to bigger and much better things, so I hired and trained him to take my place. He was smart, funny, and very cute. He had big bright eyes, dimpled cheeks, and a smile that made inquiring minds want to know more. Mike was a sharp dresser, sharper still in wit. He learned to do the job quickly. He learned to do the people immediately. After about a week, I found out that he knew the shortcuts of the job and already was making his own rules. Most days he spent more time socializing and warming up to the women than he did working. Nobody really cared because he really was a delightful man, and that was his way of getting things done. He could convince someone to take responsibility for certain aspects of his workload and have them think it was their own brilliant idea. That was Mike.

I got such a big kick out of him. He was easy to be around, and he could make me laugh until I bent over. His sense of humor, his love of life, and his gift for living each moment like it was his last endeared him to me. Few promises and fewer regrets.

In October 2001, I learned that Michael had lived his last moments a few floors above my head at Cantor Fitzgerald, in the World Trade Center’s north tower, on September 11, 2001.

I bet he was brave.

I miss him.

PART TWO

The Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter 7

Strike Two

From Panic to Pandemonium

We continued our descent down the stairs. We kept on through the dark and bottomless depths of a maniac’s loathing of religious freedoms—nothing personal. We kept finding something different behind every door we opened. While most of what we found was abandoned space, other spaces still sheltered people who were afraid to leave.

Another floor—another man peering out and more petrified people.

My cell phone rang. “Hello,” I said—no response—“Service unavailable at this time.” I swore.

As the minutes passed, the fumes became more intense. As we got closer to the bottom, my eyes burned more. Even with my lids shut. Bhranti, who was still walking next to me, also complained about her eyes and not being able to see or breathe. I noticed others removing their shirts and blouses so I took one from my bag. Still today, I can’t tell you why I had my empty laptop bag or how the recently purchased blouse got there. I placed it over Bhranti’s face and told her to take slow breaths. She did so unwillingly and then asked about me and my asthma. But my asthma was not a problem because in that moment and the moments that would follow, it was not a consideration and not a threat. The Holy Spirit breathed on my behalf.

I’m guessing that about the twentieth floor is where it happened. The heat was making me tired and I wanted to regroup. We stopped for a minute and someone opened another door. Unwittingly, I stuck my head in for cleaner air and there he was.

A man stood staring. It was a cold and blank look. He said nothing; trapped behind what once was probably a wall, his stare mesmerized me. I remember it being a mindless gaze with complete shock occupying the part of his flesh where his face used to be. There was no fire or smoke near him. Just huge chunks of broken glass, mangled and exposed wires out of their places, furniture upside down, cables and pieces of the wall lay everywhere.

Both large and small fragments of glass and other objects pierced the once perfectly papered walls. Crashes of more devastation howled from somewhere on that floor and the recognizable vociferous crackle of fire. I examined him closely from the stairs. His face . . . contorted like abstract art. His eyes . . . fixed on nothing. His mouth was wide and silent. His head rested between two small columns while his body was crooked and oddly twisted off to the side. He had been decapitated.

I think I shook my head in disbelief. I had never seen so fierce a death! Was I dreaming? Was this something my mind had conjured up? I wanted desperately to understand what I was seeing, or not seeing, but I couldn’t.

“Close the door. Don’t look,” someone yelled, and the door slammed shut.

If only it had been that simple. If only it were possible to see merely with our eyes.

We see with our hearts. Our eyes are simply catalysts that carry images. Our eyes capture flowers and our heart knows serenity. Our eyes capture a child at play and our heart knows joy. They capture beauty and we know love. They capture war and we are acquainted with mortality. My eyes captured hatred and suffering, and my heart knew sorrow. They captured death and destruction and my heart knew fear. To close one door simply captured what was on the other side, and my heart broke more.

Linda, another underwriting assistant, was about one flight up and crying uncontrollably. I stood to the side of the stairs, letting others pass, and waited for her. I put my arm around her shoulder, trying to reassure her that we would be okay. I told her that we had no time to cry. “When we get out of this mess,” I said in a small voice, “we’ll cry together. But for now, we have to keep our eyes clear and we have to keep moving.”

She nodded. Then through moderately controlled tears, and getting more emotional as she spoke, Linda said that she had been in the World Trade Center during the 1993 bombing. She told me about her nightmares and her long road to recovery. She spoke about her doubts concerning survival, and with a mind-numbing regularity that in some way made her burden lighter she told me that she could not do “this” again.

I hardly heard a word she said. I looked right through her, kept my eyes on those ahead, and kept us both moving.

Still another flight . . . maybe the seventeenth floor . . . and once again, the crowd stopped moving. We were prisoners of yet another wretched moment. I hated those long pauses more than almost anything else that happened there. It was in those moments that every victim was heard and every prayer got louder. The alternative silence was much too loud and much too much to bear.

Further down, there were wails of “Oh, Jesus, Jesus” and “Help me, I don’t wanna die.” There were horrible shouts of “No” and “Please” and “Somebody, help us.” Each plea pierced my faith a little more, seized my heart, and fear stole away my breath.

Even worse were the familiar voices of old cigarette buddies, elevator friends, and passing acquaintances—all calling out, all asking why, and all recognizable enough to make us wonder about colleagues or look down the stairs for friends. I think we all paused individually from time to time and hoped for those who we knew were in the building but we didn’t see. We were powerless to help.

I’m not sure just when it happened, but somewhere around the ninth floor I noticed that the screams and the bangs, the explosions, and the grinding metal all blended into one constant and excruciating opus as panic escalated to pandemonium when the building suddenly rocked again.

One minute I was in the stairs and the next was . . . oblivion. With heart pounding, lungs contracting, eyes expanded to the size of my face, and drenched in a cold sweat, for one terrible and seemingly endless second, I was sure—positive—that I was dying. Absolute fear. It was full-blown disorientation and a whirlwind of nauseating terror.

Lorna, one of my commuter “regulars,” worked in the World Financial Center directly across from the towers. She was at her desk and going about her morning as she normally would, when everything changed.

“I glanced up and out the window because I heard an explosion. I thought at first that a bomb had gone off somewhere. Then somebody said a plane had hit Tower One.

“I saw [the second] plane heading straight for my building. I froze. Then I screamed. I watched the airplane turn on its side and raise a few feet, change directions . . . almost a complete turn . . . then back to its side and straight into the side of the [tower]. There was fire and smoke everywhere. I fell to my knees, and all I could see was this huge hole in the side of the building with fire shooting out of it. I just knew we were next, so everybody started running and screaming. That’s when I saw the first body fall.”

Inside Tower One, the stairs shook more and flights collapsed. People slipped and stumbled. Linda fell into my back . . . heels first.

“What’s happening? What’s happening?” was the unison cry. Someone hollered up to us that the final exit door had slammed shut and was jammed. Something else was yelled. People cussed and then screamed and then . . . nothing. We just stood there, still and quiet for what seemed to be an eternity while every prisoner in that darkened and miserable staircase joined in immeasurable sorrow for what seemed to be our certain destiny.

Outside, the city held its breath in horror, staring into a black hole that was once a breathtaking landscape. Tower One stood strong, just smoking.

Inside, more jagged edges, more fires spread, more smoke made it harder to breathe. Explosions undoubtedly sealed more exits, trapped more people, and it became increasingly difficult to tell if we were still alive.

Just breathe, Leslie . . . just breathe.

It was just after nine, and Tower Two had been struck.

Silence washed over me. I felt weak.

Chapter 8

Exit Center

Angels in Our Midst

He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.” Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler and from the perilous pestilence.

—PSALM 91:1–3 nkjv

As a child, I was precocious and often called a free spirit. I was an active little girl with an honest zeal for life. Challenging rules came very naturally.

Frequently sick from asthma, I was supposed to live under certain limitations. Instead, I would climb trees or play football with the boys and then spend hours on my mother’s lap trying to breathe normally again. Although I couldn’t articulate it at the time, I understood the fragility of breath. I respected life and honored its Giver.

Even back then I was writing poems and having long conversations with the Lord. Before I really knew about the spiritual realm, I was having dreams and visions and was in touch with what we called “it.” Being spiritual was my norm . . . it was who I was.

In my early years, it was my mother who told me that God would do mighty things in my life one day. But it was God who assured me that He would always be with me. My parents said my connectedness was a gift—a divine experience and a powerful spiritual connection with my heavenly Father. As I grew older and wanted to fellowship outside the church, I felt more isolated, more resentful, and more like it was a curse. I wanted out—all the way out.

In retrospect, in that blocked stairwell I wished for some leverage or bargaining tool with God. And in spite of it all, I think I sensed that He was there with me. Still, I stood there yielded to doom and trapped on the brink of hell; once again, like that little girl I once was, feeling isolated, cursed, and wanting out—all the way out.

There was a small tremor. It lasted only a few seconds but I guess it caused the building to twist more because some doors that were previously open, slammed and jammed shut.

A man yelled that perhaps we should turn around and head back up to see if we could transfer to another stairwell.

You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday. A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not come near you. Only with your eyes shall you look, and see the reward of the wicked. (Psalm 91:5–8 nkjv)

Looking back, there were no words at that moment and still none now to describe that trancelike feeling of being “over.” None to relate that once-in-a-lifetime clarity of purpose and the realization that I had failed to fulfill mine. Trust me, there is nothing more miserable than the fear of dying and leaving so much undone and even more unspoken.

Not only was I full of repentance, I believe I reached a place where I understood that all the simple things we fight, scream, and complain about mean absolutely nothing. I was clear that all the “stuff” we work so hard to accumulate is temporary . . . of no real value. I got it. Life is a love story. I saw. I understood. It was clear. I was clear. That was how life “flashed” before my eyes, in clarity. It was a long pause of lucidity.

And then . . . then I gave up. I think we all did.

Suddenly and as unexpectedly as the exit door had closed and jammed, it opened and light trickled in. People pushed a little harder. This time the slightly anxious push became a frenzied shove toward the light. At last we had reached the lobby.

Water was everywhere. My eyes fixated on it as I tried to make out its discoloration. It was slightly red and deep. It was sluggish and did not flow willingly. The sharp odor of fuel emanated from it and took me back to the dripping I had heard earlier. This was it. This was where the water, fuel, and what appeared to be blood had found a place to collect our lives before completely draining us. We were ankle deep and plodding through it. My toes curled and tried to find a place in my shoes that was not touched by that dreadful puddle. Some women removed their shoes completely.

Now go, lead the people to the place I spoke of, and my angel will go before you. (Exodus 32:34)

A somewhat tall man with a quiet smile held the exit door open and directed evacuees to the next and final exit. He looked serene. An aura, as I know it now, was around him. At the time, I had few thoughts about him except that he felt safe and that I wanted to be where he was.

I paused near him, leaned by the door, and watched as he directed others from the stairs. I wanted to stay there with him. His presence was comforting. He looked at me and smiled. He spoke to me very clearly. He told me to move on . . . that I couldn’t stay there and that I would be okay. I believed him. His was the only smile I saw all day, and in that smile was the one place I saw faith.

It was perfect. It was reassuring. It was celestial.

Reluctantly, I moved on. I believe I exited the stairs at the plaza level but barely recognized it. No more was the concourse aglow with life. There were no sounds of hurried feet, rustling newspapers, or laughter and morning gibberish. Its voice now was the crackle of fire and random explosions. From every angle, it was crushed and dying, slightly grayed from smoke, defeated, crumbling, and slaughtered by glass bullets of injustice. Death absolutely reigned.

The smell was overpowering, and my lungs struggled frantically to blow out the stench of it. Then finally, hopeless and lost, I lifted my eyes to the only place I knew where I could find peace. Hear my cry, O God, attend unto my prayer.

I looked below me. Where had all the people gone? The officials who stood proudly every morning at the security stations had deserted them. Where were the masses that crowded the stairs? Other than those now pushing past me, the area was deserted and devoid of life.

I heard sirens coming from outside but saw no arriving knights in shining armor; at least not where I stood. There was some activity coming from the southern end of the building near the elevator banks. My eyes and subsequently my body followed the movement. I never really “saw” what was going on because my eyes stopped short of motion and focused on a very large glowing red object just outside the building. It lay near where the sculpture was supposed to be.

I stood near a railing and watched it glow, completely engrossed by the flames. There was something so frightening and magnificent about it that I couldn’t pull myself away. Whatever it was, it affected me. I just stood there with my heart beating out of my chest, afraid to breathe in more of death’s stench . . . or breathe out, as it might have been my last. My hands sweat and my knees buckled. I took a deep breath.

A woman stood beside me biting her arms in frustration. She was jumping up and down and banging her head between her hands. She was disheveled and wearing only one shoe. The other one was probably lost in that puddle. Between pauses in biting herself, she swore and yelled the same thing over and over again.

This part is hard to explain. It was composed chaos. People were running frantically trying to get away from the explosions and the flames. One man ran by us. I think he called us fools and shouted for us to move on. He was bleeding from his shoulder. Another one followed not far behind and ran by us yelling, “Get out of my way . . . get out of my way.” Without being fully aware and without knowing why, I started back toward the stairs.

In the morning you will say, “If only it were evening!” and in the evening, “If only it were morning!”—because of the terror that will fill your hearts and the sights that your eyes will see. (Deuteronomy 28:67)

I lost my virginity to a stranger at fifteen years old. I was a popular high school sophomore with the personality of a cheerleader. I had more social engagements than homework assignments, and my many extracurricular activities afforded me more than reliable excuses to sneak away from school with friends.

One evening on my walk home at dusk, a gun and the cold hands of a stranger introduced me to the bitter truth about the evil that lurks in the hearts of man. Brutal thievery forced my body to a place reserved for those in love and left me angry and confused. I let go of all fantasies about first loves. All future intimate moments of sweet surrender were lost forever in the ugliness of a .32-caliber revolver, beer breath, and cheap cologne.

Years passed before I understood the nature of sex crimes and managed to let go of the bitterness. I came to understand the detachment of it all and I finally found some truths in my experience. I learned to count it all joy, like my father often said. I learned and believed that the gift of love is the one universal certainty of any significance to God. I learned and knew that even in the worst of times, God’s loving arms are outstretched and waiting to carry us through.

More than anything, I wish I could speak of joy that came through all the suffering on that particular September morning, but I cannot. There was none. However, in the greatest moments of desperation and overwhelming sorrow, God’s loving and outstretched arms were waiting for my acceptance. I now know that His holy presence and peace called to me at every point of overwhelming despondency and paralyzing trepidation.

I know that the Lord walked with me through that concourse. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .

He held me as my head turned about quickly and my eyes scoped every inch of what remained. I will fear no evil.

It was another place entirely. It was surreal, like a 3-D movie; too gigantic and slow to participate in, yet too fast for retreat. I felt vulnerable and very mortal. For thou art with me.

Everything I saw broke my heart a little more. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. . . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Amen.

Chapter 9

War Zone

Spiritual Wickedness

What I saw was more than humbling. It was completely and unequivocally self-stripping. This grand beauty that minutes before was strong and filled with magnificence and light was suddenly bare and broken. Shards of glass lay strewn beneath what once were beautiful walls of glass.

What remained of the glass revolving doors was red with bits and pieces of human flesh clinging to them. I was flabbergasted, but I kept moving. I walked around in a trance with others who, like me, were aware of what they saw but were unable to connect emotionally.

There were no flower planters or vendors outside the entrance anymore. Instead, there were chunks of broken stone, crushed benches, and huge peculiar objects glowing or still burning. There were fallen chandeliers and deserted security stations. There was no aroma of deli food or smell of maintenance, only fuel odor, piles of ash, and debris. All not burning, glowed with an intense heat. All not cut and weakened by a thousand jagged edges was not far from it. All that remained was desolation.

I covered my face with my hands and slowly bowed my head.

Movement caught my attention, and I looked up. It was then that I heard the scrambled radios and noticed police officers carrying victims and firefighters racing into the stairways. There they were—the cavalry—my knights.

One after the other those noble men ran toward the upper floors with little hope of survival and all the grace of God. They shouted to one another as they hurried about, and despite the distance between us, I saw dread in their faces. I saw years of training and rescue procedures boil down to that one moment. That moment that broke millions of hearts with a single falling tear or drop of blood heard from downtown New York City to the hills of California, the towers in Paris, and the deserts of Afghanistan.

I believe the rescuers knew what was waiting for them up those stairs. Their eyes said so. I believe they knew they wouldn’t return, and although there was no time for intense soul searching or contemplation, I saw them choose the ultimate sacrifice. I saw them! Radios ignored! Some with gear in hand and others with equipment resolutely unfastened and left behind; they began their climb upward and into the pages of history.

They tossed people down the stairs and to safety. They dragged bodies out of the way. They screamed, yelled, and shouted to us to keep moving. They scraped aside metal and glass. With bloodied fingers they moved obstacles while the Twins were getting beaten into total and complete surrender.

Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. (Ephesians 6:11–12 kjv)

A large mound of something charred lay near the elevators. A woman, I think, lay near it. A small amount of blood was near her neck area. Her legs splayed out awkwardly, and her eyes were shut, but not completely; they had rolled back as if she was unconscious. Her arm lay to her side and her chest rose and dropped rapidly. She was panting.

I just stood there, watching, listening—and with every moment that passed, I lost a little bit more of the woman I was at 8:45 that morning. Every second that I stood breathing was a miracle, and each one confirmed for me my finite self.

Most of us have had “mystical” moments in one way or another. At some point in our lives we have had that feeling of déjà vu or dread in a premonition. We have found occasion to share unnatural stories about visions or of dreaming about gardens one night and then receiving flowers the next day. Sometimes we encounter experiences that are unexplainable or unattached to a particular person or event. These moments are easy enough to ignore, because our first instinct is to disbelieve what we cannot understand and discount what is unfamiliar to us.

But there are those rare circumstances in which there is a convergence of spiritual awareness, insight, and fulfillment, and one dreadful place is born or realized. Although to describe it as a place is ambiguous. It is no more a “place” than I am a “thing.” It crosses that extreme and fine line between spiritual awareness and psychosis. It is more accurately described as a resolute challenge to our limited and relative mind. It is a vast and incalculable core of awareness that goes beyond our tiny range of personal knowledge, experience, accountability, or understanding of space, time, self, familiarity, identity, and even reality. It is distinct, and it is the determination of the now we live in. Call it the spirit realm, imagination, hyperbole . . . or insanity. You may even write it off as enigmatic, but whatever it is, it is—was—the backdrop of my day and it was, without a doubt, linked to that inner place.

I wandered inside of myself . . .

. . . and there it was, the one “thing” that had called to me my entire life. That thing that had drawn me in for so long and kept me on the edge. That thing that made it impossible for me to walk dark halls or believe in “floating” molecules seen through my periphery. That thing that I never dared speak of . . . until now.

Never before had I dared to travel so deep inside of me to touch this “thing” or find this “place.” I fail miserably even in describing my inability to describe it. Nevertheless, I am aware now of my finite self and infinite spirit. I am aware that beyond my flesh or inside of me and in each of us is a “place” where we war.

This is the place that resolves our lives and how victoriously or “defeatedly” we live them. This is “that place” where spirits dwell and linger and seek to destroy, and though we are equipped to fight we are not prepared. We lack understanding and walk superstitiously in fear and disbelief. But disbelief does not topple truth!

The real war.

I covered my face and was trying not to see anything more. I heard a voice. It told me to stand quietly and not to move. It whispered that my family would mourn me and pay dearly for all of the painful, lonely years that I had suffered. They would be sorry for the judgments I had endured at their hands. “They deserve your death.” It spoke to me in an ominous but pitiful voice, so I responded. I stood motionless . . . readying myself for death . . . and . . . I listened.

Intense thoughts and emotions overcame me. My head was spinning. A tiny almost miniscule fiber connected my own will to my self-awareness. I couldn’t separate visions from life occurrences, the dead from the dying, or the victims from the survivors.

Tiny rat-like shadows moved quickly around me. I watched myself vomit from the taste of someone else’s blood. The uniqueness of soured death was on my lips and his voice was in my ear. I smelled him and inhaled him. I touched him, and in passing, he touched me.

Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand. (Ephesians 6:13 kjv)

I read somewhere that in our human capacity it is difficult for our minds to remain alert to subtle things when there are so many macro events occurring around us. Too often we fail to see big lessons in small things because we are so preoccupied with the big things of little to no significance. This was, for me, such an occasion.

This is where I ended.

I heard weeping as death erased all color lines and blinded eyes to cultural distinction. I saw hope forgotten as blade joined with flesh and left behind scattered traces of a single soul. Unidentifiable bloodless limbs and white bone fragments lay erratically scattered about once shining floors like uncollected trash.

With my head between my arms and my hands clasped behind my head, I started walking . . . with no certain course—just walking—slowly at first, scoping every inch of what I could see and getting more confused by what I didn’t see—my enemy.

I saw fire so hot that in minutes concrete was ash; so arrogant that it dissolved thousands of years of segregation into one history. Indiscriminate, as still burning human torsos and unrecognizable charred human remains lay close enough to mounds of melting metal that they seemed to be one object. Glowing metal fused into concrete. It was incomprehensible.

With blatant dull thuds and pops of exploding flesh, persons once known as, became another of the unknown bodies twisted in midair and liberated from business attire, with legs pointed upward, arms spread eagle, and faces looking into the wind. Friends who once were, became vicious, newly created weapons of war and crashed into cement, mangled.

Shoes, hats, notes, pens, phone messages, cell phones, purses, combs, and all kinds of personal items lay about—abandoned in the escape or lost in the air. I gave in to despair.

Still-breathing masses leaped over terrors, disassociated, disoriented, and torn apart. There were trails of urine, blood, and other human waste evacuated in fear; spilled sporadically throughout the concourse. Both women and men curled up in corners too afraid or too given to shock to move. I felt my tower, as its steel bones began to break from the enormous burden, erupt in black vomit, with no pretense of dignity.

And yet, for me, the concourse gave witness to the spirit and compassionate presence of God. It was here that the most significant displays of courage and heroism took place.

I watched ordinary men and women clad in suits and dresses transform into heroes and carry others to safety. Some removed their jackets and used them to smother fire from the bloody, peeling bodies of strangers while others comforted those lost in shock. Ordinary people, who minutes before the first plane left Logan Airport in Boston sat typing, reading e-mails, and drinking coffee, were now desperately fighting for the heroic embrace of life.

I witnessed the tears of port authority and city police officers, now vulnerable, crying out to God as they bravely tried to maintain a hasty and orderly evacuation, despite the circumstances and no matter the severity. In those moments, there seemed to be no justice.

For a while I just stood there, very still and very quiet. My brain was unable to wrap itself around what was happening—still listening to the voices. I think somehow I believed that if I avoided movement, I would also avoid the inevitable. I would be invisible to death’s grip. As I continued to watch, my eyes captured every devastating minute, and my heart stopped.

10 Seconds to Fall

“10”—I close my eyes and kiss the skies

To dream of a place where I can fly

“9”—I spread my wings until it seems . . .

that I’m a child again

“8”—I believed in angels and life was good

When

they laid me down to sleep

I prayed for promises

and streets of gold

If alas they came to keep my soul

“7”—I wonder now . . . so high on life that death intoxicates me . . .

And as I dance . . .

entranced

on eyelids of twins

and sing . . .

of wings

and heavenly places

I know

I’m still

“6”—100 stories above the earth . . . and my own is just a whisper

Ashes to the same ashes that once birthed me

I see,

my return

so near to God that I feel His breath

so far from Him,

I pray He sees

Me . . .

and the truth

“5”—I stretch out my hand and reach for it . . .

The truth that is—I’ll grab it,

The way that is—I’ll hold it,

The light that shines—now grows,

Bold

And oh . . .

so

strong

Till it becomes

my faith

And it . . . faith . . .

will save me. . . .

“Yes”

“4”—From the angry fire behind me . . . that spits when he laughs

The heat inside me . . . that burns when I cry

The pain around me . . . that smothers my soul . . .

and then

me

Until I no longer breathe

“3”—I close my eyes and kiss the skies and an angel meets me here

Already at . . .

“2”—

He holds my hand and hums the song my mama sang to the crib

Not long enough ago

When dreams

were smiles and peaceful grins,

and twins

were people

I close my eyes and kiss the skies and gravity gives way

I spread my wings until it seems I am born again

“1”—and then,

Sin

Is erased

and I hear a name

Sweet Jesus . . .

It’s mine

sung with “hal—le—lu-jah”

and blended with cold cement . . .

Amen.

Amen.

Chapter 10

The Birth of Inspiration

The End of Me

I wandered around that concourse for the rest of my life. I stumbled in circles for what seemed an eternity—walking from one corner to the next trying to figure my way out. Distracted by people lost to themselves in the fetal position on the floor, I lost my way a few times.

Even more confusing was the sea of bloodied blue shirts as I tried to make my way out. Looking back, I believe it was in those moments that I collected the pieces of who I would later become.

This is hard to write. My stomach aches now as it did then.

I remember being struck by something so hard that it knocked the wind from me. I was later told that it was an exploded torso that had projected a few feet and hit me. I was told that I just looked down and then just stepped over it.

I don’t remember clearly the exact details of this incident, but I do remember feeling responsible. I felt that it was only a matter of time before I too was lying on the floor somewhere—gone. I stood very still and waited . . . for death . . . even if it meant being gutted by one of those jagged edges that rained from the sky. I’m ashamed to say it now, but I wanted the agony of living to stop and to be immediately relieved of this burden too deep for words. I stared down, trying to avoid looking at those cold blank faces without names. My heart was in a frantic search for God. How can I find you in the midst of all this?

I walked away in sacrificial indifference.

Dear Mom,

I sorry for the way I acted today, But I didn’t mean it that way. It’s just that last time I fell asleep watching this boring show and I almost threw up. I want to spend time with you but I also want to spend time with my friends and this “puberty” thing is really messing me up. So please forgive me for being mean.

Love Eliot

I gave birth to my only child when I was twenty-six years old. I experienced all the joys and pains of pregnancy largely on my own, and for the most part, I was alone when I gave birth.

There was no “love of my life” standing by my side and holding my hand. I had good friends there who stood with me all night and prayed with me before, and after, my son was born.

After seventy-two hours of waiting and praying and pushing, Eliot Cameron was born. He was 7 pounds, 14 1/2 ounces of miracle! I read to him from the womb to the cradle and still now. I sang him to sleep and stroked his little face while he slept. I delighted in just the smell of his milky breath and bright morning eyes.

As Eliot learned to speak, we took turns telling bedtime stories about angels and toys. Toys were his favorite. He is the only good thing I have ever done, and unlike most teenagers, I like him. I liked who he was when he was three and talked to me about Jesus. I liked who he was at nine when he wrote the letter about being mean to me, I liked who he was at thirteen when this nightmare began, and I really like him now, at seventeen.

I watch him becoming a man. It is an amazing thing to see my little boy building a personal relationship with God—making our faith his own. He is a caring, secure, intelligent, and silly Allen Iverson wannabe, and he is NOT ashamed to be called a child of God.

Single parenting has not been easy, but it has been worth every minute of joy, pain, sickness, good grades, night fears, fevers, ear infections, birthday parties, and bellyaches. For years being Eliot’s mom defined me. Seeing him smile was my motivation—what drove me. So it makes perfect sense that my first thought beyond the World Trade Center that morning was of my son and eleven years of Friday nights with pizza and a Blockbuster movie.

I was not ready to give that up. I was not willing to go “quietly into the night” and say good-bye to Eliot. I wanted to go home!

As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air. . . . But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. (Ephesians 2:1–2, 4–5)

I saw small crowds hurrying toward the sky bridge that connected the World Trade Center to the Financial Towers, a complex of buildings behind the WTC. “This way, this way,” someone called.

I turned toward the voices and saw a tall, thin man. At first, I didn’t recognize what he was doing, but I’ll never forget his eyes. They were hazel in color and full of panic. I realized he was on fire. His skin looked as if it was dissolving off his bones. Flames covered a large part of his body. He ran from the stairs and toward me. Another man was chasing him and hitting at him with his bare hands—trying to squelch the flames. I didn’t even think to try to help.

I just stood out of the way, holding my chest in upset. Finally, somebody tackled the man with a jacket and put out the flames. He lay in front of me, motionless, smoldering. The skin on his face was burned black like toast. It looked like a bad Halloween mask.

The wide open space where I was standing was bright by now from the sun—an ironic contrast to the pitch black of where we really were.

There was sporadic activity here and there, but nothing that could have been called a planned evacuation. For years I have worked in office buildings that mandated fire drills. They would notify our staff twenty-four hours in advance so that we would be ready to respond. When the alarm sounded, everyone would line the walls outside their offices and wait for the “all clear”—usually no more than three minutes later.

At this point, even though intentions were good, I question the value of such a drill. In no way did years of lining the walls on command prepare for evacuating a mammoth tower set ablaze or deciphering procedures through the controlled chaos of yelling port authority police officers and firefighters; nobody knew how to remove tens of thousands of people from the blast radius of a triggered time bomb.

The random thumps that started shortly after the first jet hit were more frequent now. Body parts were everywhere. It was worse than watching a movie. I remember hearing myself, still outside myself, ask someone if all this was real. “Is this really happening?” I asked.

That’s when he fell . . . or jumped.

I was standing closer to the sky bridge. The glass was morbidly stained by what is now my recurring nightmare. I’m not exactly sure why, but I froze there, just watching firemen watch the sky.

Even though I was told not to, I looked up and I saw his face. I don’t know where his fall originated, but I watched him fall from probably the ninth floor until he hit the ground. I had no other choice.

He had dark blond hair and green eyes, which by the time I saw them were draining blood from their sockets. I must have been lost again in shock because my thoughts were not of his present state but of his morning routine. I wondered how long it took him to shave his face that morning and what he could have been thinking about as he dressed for work.

His light blue shirt and dark pants were classic office attire. I wondered what he did for a living.

The look on his face was one of surprise. I don’t think he knew what was happening to him, at least that’s the way I prefer to remember it. When he landed he was spread flat and staring up . . . no sound came from him. He wasn’t screaming or crying at all.

I heard that at a speed of just less than one hundred fifty miles per hour, the fall lasted ten seconds—not fast enough to cause unconsciousness when falling, but slow enough to remain aware of one’s final moments.

Just then a man, a firefighter I think, gently pushed me forward. “You can’t stay here. It’s not safe,” he said. “Keep moving. Run.”

Something snapped. And so I did. I ran.

I ran like I have never run before.

Imagine being me. I ran without legs beneath me and with my heart pounding outside of my chest. I ran with no thought or question about why. I ran with no idea where I was running to, but with a crystal-clarity about the place I was running from. I ran with my arms shielding my head—through areas and scenes that I still do not recognize.

Others were running too; like the wind, swearing and screaming unintelligible words, like banshees.

In those few moments of flight, there might have been born . . . an epiphany. For some, death was the choice to fall or to fly. Others decidedly stood nearby for friends or for duty. In each case, death here was as affecting as life’s last hurrah. But for me, it was the beginning. . . .

I exited Tower One and left behind the pride in my career accomplishments, my arrogance, my power suits, power lunches, swollen ego, and self-righteousness.

This is where I was born.

Chapter 11

Goliath Falls

The Beginnings of Sorrows

And when ye shall hear of wars and rumours of wars, be ye not troubled: for such things must needs be; but the end shall not be yet. For nation shall rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom: and there shall be earthquakes in divers places, and there shall be famines and troubles: these are the beginnings of sorrows.

—MARK 13:7–8 kjv

WHAT SEPTEMBER MEANS TO ME . . .

September . . . the first day of school and the promise of longer nights. Those were the days. How I love its eclectic smells, its sharpened pencils and chalked erasers against a blackboard eagerly waiting to record history—yeah, erasers. Those built-in chalk makers, fun makers and finders of new friends. School days, school days, those happy golden rule days—days of new clothes and school supplies—shuffling leaves—notebooks neatly divided into subjects never really discussed, and new shoes—new plans—long corridors and short bells, food fights, recess and banged up lockers—yeah. Youth . . . the fine lines of notebook paper and the smell—um yeah, new books, new friends and new bus routes. Ending summer romances, final farewells, barbeques and visiting relatives that stay too long. The beginning of the Christmas countdown and long letters that began “Dear Santa.” Yeah, barbeque, that’s September, barbeque.

I noticed Millie, a member of my staff, on the sky bridge. She was alone, crying, and because of her weight and bad leg, struggling to keep going. I went over and kept her company until she was ready to start moving again. I’m not sure who supported whom, but with my arm wrapped around her shoulder, and her right hand in mine, we crossed the bridge.

Millie was in the World Trade Center during the 1993 bombing, and like Linda, she wanted to talk about it. So we talked about it. Correction, she talked. I kept us moving. The conversation was like the others I’d had that morning—one-sided and mindless. It went from the bombing to her having left her purse in the office and not knowing how she would get home, then back to the bombing. I nodded my head in acknowledgment and kept my focus straight ahead. I heard her but I had little idea what she was saying. My instincts were basic; keep moving and get out of the area.

From where we were on the bridge, I could see the atrium of the Financial Center and hundreds of evacuees and onlookers. They stood ogling and almost cheering for us as we approached.

A little more than halfway across, I noticed Nancy. She was an old commuter friend from years before. We rode the bus together, and my memories of her were fond ones. She was always polite and always smiling. A terrific conversationalist, Nancy was strong, decisive, and confident.

I hadn’t seen her in more than two years and there she was. I caught her eye as she passed us. She was walking with someone as well—much in the same way that I was walking with Millie. She looked at me and for the first time in the many years I had known her, there was no laughter in her smile. Instead, I saw a woman with a forced nervous grin and a million questions in her eyes. I almost smiled politely, but I definitely shook my head. She shrugged her shoulders, I mine, and we continued the long crossing to the Financial Center and to safety.

I noticed immediately that the Financial Center’s atrium was completely untouched. It was like entering the twilight zone—a parallel dimension with no signs of bereavement whatsoever. It was as beautiful as ever. Everything was in perfect placement. Its long marble staircase cascaded down into the area of tall palm trees that on many days was the perfect lunch spot. My first impulse was to sit for a minute on the benches surrounding the indoor garden and take a deep breath of resolution. But, twilight zone or not, I was still not close enough to home. And although the structure was untouched, the chaos was far-reaching. People were running everywhere. No one knew where to go. Millie and I moved slower now as we took it all in.

A woman ran by, obviously in shock. Her face was drenched—awash with tears and what looked like slobber. As she passed, she was praying aloud. She was running toward the plaza and crossing herself—running, crossing, saying prayers, kissing her fingers, running, and crossing. Believe it or not, it struck me as being funny.

Have you ever been so afraid that you lost all sense of . . . everything? I almost laughed at her. . . .

Millie and I walked down the stairs. We moved in a slow but deliberate purple haze. Just walking, watching, and saying nothing. Police officers and firefighters were still yelling. The urgency in their blaring at us catapulted me back into the grim reality of our location and made me fearful again. I was so shook up and confused that I was almost in tears. Had I even a vague idea of the enormity of what was still to come, I probably would have saved the tears for weeping and gnashing of teeth.

Crowds of people stood near the Financial Center exits. They stared with inviting eyes. I could tell that they wanted, no . . . needed, to hear the individual accounts of what it was like inside the Twins. They needed us to validate the savagery so that they could justify their hollering and then move on. But no one really moved on. Not from that . . . no one could. It was too hard to do that . . . to let go . . . to walk away. It was too hard and still too surreal, you know.

Tragedy is a bizarre irony in that it can be fascinating, mesmerizing, and at the same time heart wrenching. For some, there is no escaping that carnal “need to know” or that compelling dark hunger to “spare no details.” Therefore, although varying in the degrees of atrocity, we were all poets, and it was inevitable that eventually each of us would “spare few details” in telling our stories.

These things have I spoken unto you, that ye should not be offended. They shall put you out of the synagogues: yea, the time cometh, that whosoever killeth you will think that he doeth God service. And these things will they do unto you, because they have not known the Father, nor me. (John 16:1–3 kjv)

We exited at the far end of the building closest to where the Financial Center ferry docked. There an even bigger crowd lined the sidewalk and looked up at the burning towers. Some were talking, but most were in quiet repudiation . . . speechless. Groups hugged and tried to console one another. Most just stared up and cried.

Millie and I separated. I lost sight of her and never saw her again.

I drifted through the crowd for a while, until miraculously, I ran into Nancy again. By then the details of what really happened had begun to surface.

Witnesses saw two airplanes intentionally fly directly into both towers in an apparent terrorist attack. To us, this was just an assumption. How could it be anything other than an accident . . . how?

A West Indian woman, thick with her accent and heavy in her hands, stood near us shaking her body hysterically as if she were doing a dance. She pranced back and forth like a tiger, shouting “sabotage” and “terrorism.” I could see that she was furious and scared at the same time. There were tears in her eyes and she kept balling her fists, taking short leaps into the air, and stamping her feet violently against the pavement as she landed. Because of her accent she lost me on some words, but I could plainly understand her demands for revenge.

Nancy and I gasped and shook our heads in disbelief. This was extreme. This was too much. On top of all the other stuff this day had vomited into our consciousness, this was much too much information to process. . . .

We didn’t know what to believe, so we discounted all of it. After all, it couldn’t be true. This was America, New York, 2001. These things didn’t happen to us, did they? We don’t have terrorist attacks on this soil, do we? We don’t nurture souls so black, with hatred so profound, as to exact such deliberate and ruthless slaughter on thousands of innocents . . . not anymore . . . not again, do we?

Nancy and I looked intently at each other, seeking confirmation that we had not gone completely mad. Someone behind us cursed terrorists and vowed vengeance on America’s behalf. “This means war. This means war!” they cried. I lit a cigarette.

“Oh my—look, there goes another one.” Nancy and I looked up, aghast at what we saw. Nancy shuddered. I told her that I had seen at least ten already. She gasped. For a second she looked queasy. We stood there . . . together . . . and watched one after another choose death by flight.

One couple stood close to the edge of a window, held hands, and let themselves go. I watched her dress opening and flapping in the wind almost birdlike. His suit rounded over his back in the wind as he fell. I imagined the sound of the air pushing past their ears and creating that low reverberation that you hear when you stick your head out a moving car window. I thought about how the wind can steal your breath away and how the pushing air vigorously massages the skin. Except for the end, it would have been exhilarating.

Their hands separated midair and they tumbled. Finally their bodies met with the hundreds who fell or were pushed or jumped before them. One by one, they landed—ending dreams, plans, futures, and families. I felt a soft moist hand close into mine. I heard a sigh deeper than the pains of a mother losing her only child. Nancy.

Bystanders shrieked in horror. They wondered aloud what terrible thing forced those people to those open windows. What vileness made human beings desperate to be volunteers? They couldn’t imagine making that choice.

Meanwhile, those of us who survived that particular battle knew too well what went on behind those walls. We were well acquainted with the jagged edges and angry fire. We walked through the intense heat. It seared our own skin. We knew too well the brutal nature of mass murder. We knew of the thin ledge outside those windows that couldn’t accommodate so many waiting for rescue—pushed. We knew of the explosions of flames that wipe out reason—jump. We were in accord with the severity of a reality so dreadful that it gave way to hopelessness—surrender. We too had been so afraid that we lost all sense of . . . everything.

I propose now, in hindsight, that in situations like these, it is neither necessary nor possible for us to understand all the whys or hows in order to learn from them. It is neither consequential nor probable to fully process these moments with a rational mind. They are too deep. We need only surrender that moment to the moment and leave “comprehension” or “meaning” to follow in the fullness of time . . . eternity.

This is the lesson: God is sovereign and though He allows us to live the consequences of our choices, He will assign meaning to our moments and redeem us. He is our Redeemer.

I watched more fall or jump. By now I was so removed that I couldn’t even cry. Instead my mind made art of it all. I chose to go even further down that particular rabbit hole.

I noticed that as they fell their arms seemed like gliders waving calmly in the wind. I noticed the slow and steady motion of the fall itself, and again, I imagined the sounds and the whispers midair. Their clothing spread out like canopies in the gentle breeze of the once beautiful autumn air. How could something so stunning be so heartbreaking? I just looked, smoked my cigarettes, and counted.

I remember the color of his shirt . . .

“Leslie . . . Leslie . . . LESLIE.” A sharp voice snatched me back. “Let’s get away from here.” It was Nancy. She grabbed my arm and we headed for a ferry. The ferry would take us back to Hoboken so that we could board a train going to upstate New York . . . home.

I realized that I only had a little cash. “Nancy, I need to find an ATM. I have no cash for the ferry.” She looked at me with a question mark above her brow, undoubtedly wondering, What are you talking about, Leslie?

“We’re not stopping, and we don’t need tickets or money!” She kept her focus and kept walking, all the while tugging me closely behind her—like a mother pulling her child along—and sputtering about my being ridiculous. Our slow walk got faster as we got closer to the dock. Judging from the look on her face, that putrid taste of smoke was washed from her mouth by the taste of freedom. I guess she saw more than a boat.

Making a final attempt to process the day, I glanced over my shoulder one last time.

I looked back in risk—lest I become a pillar of salt—subconsciously knowing that that part of my life was over but wanting to hold on to it. I suspect that intuitively I knew I would never return to the Trade Center as it was. Maybe the masses that stood around knew something as well, and they mourned the towers long before they fell.

There was nothing left to me. Nothing except my instincts and a voice of anguish inside, fostering its relationship to every scream, every pop, thud, explosion, and moan that had replaced the quiet sips of my early morning coffee. We would soon be reconciled.

Therefore in one day her plagues will overtake her: death, mourning and famine. She will be consumed by fire, for mighty is the Lord God who judges her. When the kings of the earth who committed adultery with her and shared her luxury see the smoke of her burning, they will weep and mourn over her. Terrified at her torment, they will stand far off and cry: “Woe! Woe, O great city, O Babylon, city of power! In one hour your doom has come!” (Revelation 18:8–10)

Nancy and I reached the ferry dock. Again, I mentioned an ATM and cash. Again, she told me not to be ridiculous and pulled me along. We pushed our way through the crowd. Nancy was determined to get aboard and not to leave me behind.

There were so many people trying to get on that we were afraid there would not be enough room for us. Nancy pushed. It was probably her way of fighting back. She pushed hard, and while pulling me by the arm, we boarded the ferry. With perhaps one foot on the dock and the other on board, the boat pulled out—leaving behind hundreds of panic-stricken survivors and bystanders.

Not knowing if or when another ferry would come, they hung on to the railings near the dock, crying and begging us not to leave. All of them wanting . . . wanting their slippers, their favorite TV dinners and fish sticks and mothers and mothers-in-law and sodas and warm blankets and dogs and cats and credit card bills and old movies and repossession notices and . . . and loved ones and telephones and TVs and beds and just . . . simply . . . normal . . . home.

Nancy dropped my hand and walked toward the back of the boat.

I looked around. I didn’t like being alone. Alone, I couldn’t make sense of anything. I remember looking down at my feet and for some reason patting my toes in my shoes. I remember looking at the seats of the boat. They didn’t make sense. The floor didn’t look like a floor, and the people seemed . . . unreal.

There were hundreds on board, rushing about, looking into the water, and grabbing life jackets like on a scavenger hunt . . . not frantically, and not everyone, but purposefully. I might have wondered what they knew that I didn’t. I turned to speak with Nancy, but she was out of sight by then.

That’s when I saw Lorna. She was visibly shaken and sitting near the side of the ferry. Her face is still as clear to me now as it was that day. She looked drained and aged. Her makeup had faded from crying and her hair was no longer perfect. She was trembling and tousled.

I stared as she described seeing the second plane fly into Tower Two. “I kept waiting for it to pull up, but . . . it just went right in.”

I don’t know if it was disbelief or denial, but she relived the entire thing while shaking her head back and forth, gesturing no. “I . . . uh . . . it . . . there was a huge hole in the side of the building, Leslie.”

I listened and was amazed to hear that there had in fact been not one but two attacks. It was the first conversation that really registered for me all day—registered and delivered another devastating blow. I watched this big beautiful woman become smaller with every syllable.

It is illogical looking back, but even though we lived it, neither of us had any idea of the infamy September 11 would later claim. We were clueless that even as early as 8:50 a.m., the day had moved beyond a date on the calendar and into something bigger and of a much greater magnitude than what we could wrap our minds around . . . ever. We were just too small.

Suddenly there was a terrible sound like a freight train coming.

I saw this in a dream . . .

The walls were hollow and pitch-black. Nothing was solid. Everything that existed there was a mist but still able to be

touched. I was there for a reason, but I didn’t know why. I knew that I wasn’t ready for whatever was ahead. I tried to tell the Lord no. I tried to tell Him to wait, but my mouth sealed and I could not speak. I was “me” but I was watching myself from somewhere outside of it all.

I stood motionless in darkness with my back pressed firmly against a mirrored wall that I could not see; expecting that at any moment something would devour me. My senses sharpened and I could feel the presence of something very evil. “Jesus Christ is my Lord,” I screamed at the top of my voice. Nothing came from my mouth. I passed by a mirror and saw a face like mine. It approached me quickly in body only—then dissipated. My face itched and then my entire body. Terror gripped my knees and forced my hands to my eyes. “Jesus Christ is my Lord,” I shouted again and again.

There was movement about me, and faces I’d never seen before, some just figures of faces with no features at all . . . just blank and empty. Though I had never seen them, I knew them. Then suddenly I was angry, so angry that my breathing quickened and my muscles tensed. My fists balled and my back released the wall. I reached inside of me, with all the strength and faith I could collect, and I shouted with authority . . . “Jesus Christ is my Lord!”

I looked back to Manhattan Island in stillness.

There it stood in the unfamiliar magnificence of surrender—WEAK.

Then, in almost perfect rhythm and easy gracefulness—in a huge cloud of black smoke—over in seconds—gone—FAILED.

Tower Two surrendered her ghosts—COLLAPSED.

“Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

Jesus wept. ( John 11:35)

Chapter 12

It Is Finished

There Is No Other Love

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.

—JOHN 3:16

The crowd that had been standing and watching the fires found itself in the path of a slaughtered giant. No one hesitated to move. For miles, the rumble of thunder drowned out the cries of the city. More horrified screams and shrieks of panic rose from the streets of Manhattan and invaded every living room in the world. It was almost a synthesized movement as people turned to run. They pushed the people in front of them and used each other to propel themselves faster in a desperate attempt to escape . . . and then, the deafening, angry thunder and the all-consuming black cloud. . . .

I still hear it sometimes.

I met a Man many years ago who told me that He loved me. I fell in love with His majesty. I fell in love with His love for me. For me, He created the world and its entire splendor. For His praise and pleasure, His hands molded the earth and filled it with every awesome thing, great and small.

From my heart, I hear shouts of His praise.

From every view on earth, His glory reigns.

From the birds that sing in synchronicity, to winds that whistle a melody—He is a poet.

From the trees that bathe in the sun to color the mountain’s landscape, to flowers that share His fragrant breath—He is an artist.

He declares the sun to shine and the moon to glow.

The oceans still and seas rumble on His word.

He breathes life with a thought and His whisper conquers death.

With the wave of His hand, He spins the earth and writes its history—He is an author.

He delivers and heals, He grieves and gives comfort, He chastens and consoles, He forgives and forgets, loves and loves, and then loves more.

He is “Our Father.” My father . . . my Beloved.

Selah

I got off the ferry at the Hoboken train terminal with a pounding headache and completely absent from my body. I was dizzy, dazed, and exhausted.

Nancy and I hugged, exchanged numbers, and went our separate ways. I stood in the middle of the station for a while doing nothing, just standing. What I needed was a long nap, and had it not been for the madness in the train station, I could have easily lain down on one of the wooden benches in the waiting area and quietly passed away.

To think only a few hours before, the train station had been busy with normal commuter insolence in their hurry to “get there.” Newspaper stands had been active and the smell of coffee and cigarettes prominent. Hundreds of commuters had been on their way to work with morning papers tucked neatly under their arms and their briefcases hurriedly flung over their shoulders. Each one had glanced at the clock and hurried toward the PATH trains with the same purpose of getting to work and making the day go by fast, in order to get back home.

Now, in the moment that I was living, hundreds of disheveled commuters without briefcases were desperately looking for a train out—out of the nightmare—out of the city and out of the loop!

Security was understandably tight. Police officers, PA announcements, shaken conductors, medics, and crew members told bits of the story as it came through over the radio and TV. Paranoia crept in. Were the commuter trains about to be attacked? Was it safe to ride? Is there a situation in the tunnels? Is it over? Let’s beat up the Muslims in the station store. He looks like a terrorist. What is he carrying? Sir, will you step this way, please?

It was a mess. As it turned out, trains did not enter or leave the station for hours. Medics checked the injured and took blood pressure readings and we were free to go.

I walked back and forth for a few minutes trying to regain a sense of direction. Then, exasperated at my own dithering, I finally stood near the arrival/departure board and checked for train and track information. The schedules changed by the minute. A conductor came over to me. He had a puzzled look on his face. He looked me up and down and asked if I was okay. I nodded. “Sure.” It was later that I came to understand why he asked.

On an average day, it was simply not normal to walk about wearing clothes stained with blood and dust. It wasn’t an everyday thing to wander through train stations with singed facial hair and burns and bruises about the head and hands. Sadly, that day, it probably was the least of what passed through the station.

He helped me board the correct train. “Just wait here,” he said. “We’ll leave shortly.” I nodded and boarded.

Different from my usual commuter habit, I sat next to someone, a co-worker named John. I took a deep breath. He was in tears and spouting something about the Pentagon and Camp David and Pennsylvania and this being worse than Pearl Harbor and my goodness he didn’t breathe once. He was understandably livid and cussing like he was insane. He said he wanted to reenlist and find “that black-hearted [expletive] coward.” I smiled politely and thought that maybe the shouting crowd had been right. Maybe this did mean war. But that thought was even scarier than what I was living through. War would kill us all.

“I saw the second plane hit,” someone yelled. “I was near the window and could have been killed,” someone else said. “Oh, my God, did you see the bodies?” another shouted. Everyone around me was sharing the fear, the rage, or the pain in one language or another. Some were praying. I think it would have been beautiful had it not been for the circumstances . . . the solidarity, I mean.

Everybody was anxious as the train sat idle. Everybody spent nervous energy that kept them talking about anything and everything—from revenge to solidarity to information on hijackings to peanut butter sandwiches, believe it or not.

I just sat with my hands tucked under my armpits, rocking back and forth. All the conversations around me blended. What began as audible, distinguishable sentences became nothing more than a barrage of garbled gabble.

Then came the antidote to all gibberish—a passenger who had been listening to a small radio jumped from his seat, pounded the headrest of the seat in front of him, and wailed, “Tower One just fell . . . Tower One just fell . . . Oh, my God . . . Tower One just fell. Dear God, help us! Oh, help us! Those [expletive] are blowing up New York!”

“What?” John asked. “Oh, my God . . . no!” He jumped forward in his seat and sobbed angrily. His face was beet red and he almost collapsed to the floor. The news of the second Twin’s demise traveled throughout the train like weeds, almost visibly growing.

It began as a rumble and a very slow build . . . a wave of emotion . . . a rhythm . . . almost like feet softly stamping in a ballpark and working toward a climax . . . or a reverse echo . . . until finally the angst and the loathing erupted into an enormous roar and swallowed up all remaining life on that train.

It lasted. . . .

I was astounded by the commonality brought about by such extreme distress. If only for one day, the weeping, the prayers, and the hand-holding erased all barriers. We were a united people. And, if not for the obvious presence of the snake, the scene on that train could have represented a perfect world.

I turned to John. “What happened?” I asked calmly. “Our building just fell,” he said. “What?” “It’s down,” he answered. I think I heard impatience in his voice. “Gone, Leslie . . . both towers are gone.”

I guess I asked the wrong question. What I really wanted was for him to explain to me what we had just gone through. What happened?

What I got was a moment of clarity. As the haze in my mind began to clear, all of my whats became whys and I stared blankly out the window. It is finished.

Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.—Pascal

I think hours passed before that train moved. I lost time.

Finally, it pulled out of Hoboken Terminal. It rounded the corner at a snail’s pace, and everyone stared out the windows. Some stood in the aisles to see and some even tiptoed over seats. What we saw stopped our hearts.

There’s a rhythm to life. Things move to a beat and play to inspire our journeys. From the waves in the womb to rock-a-bye baby, from the swinging arms of a mother to the motion of cars, sports, and dance—even death, sleeping, and eating have a beat. Rhythm is life.

We live by it. We expect the music. Our habits, behaviors, thoughts, and activities are melodic and keep up with the beat. When in harmony, they captivate us and inspire our life stories. We call them our songs.

Incomparable to any other addiction, source of intoxication, or “fix,” every person on earth is driven by and addicted to the rhythms of life. Skip a beat, miss the melody, lose step, or stop the music, even for a minute, and the heart can go off course forever.

We rounded that curve, leaving New York City, where it was all about the rhythm of the Big Apple skyline, and someone stopped the music. There it was. Amidst billowing clouds of smoke, beneath an ocean of uncollected tears and countless personal items, the new and not-so-improved New York skyline . . . with no towers. Both were gone.

I believe every eye on the train filled with tears and incredulity. Although the rhythm was enough to keep the momentum, it was not enough to define the music, and the heart of all of New York City went off course . . . forever.

Chapter 13

Going Home

No Words

Let us search and try our ways, and turn again to the Lord.

—LAMENTATIONS 3:40 kjv

A wealthy man had two sons. The younger son asked his father for his inheritance. Shortly after receiving it, the son gathered his things and left for a “far country.” He spent his money on fancy living, enjoying parties, expensive clothes, drugs, and anything that made him feel good. He thought he was living “the good life.” During this time, he forgot about God.

Soon his money ran out and hard times hit the country. He had no money for food or clothing, so he went to work for a man who sent him into the fields to feed his pigs. By then he was so hungry that he wanted to eat the pigs’ food. He found himself on his hands and knees, humiliated. In extreme anxiety, he remembered that even the servants in his father’s house had more than enough to eat and were well cared for.

“I will go back to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and you.’” He got up from his place of disgrace and started home to his father’s house.

I rode the train in complete silence. I didn’t want to open my mouth. I didn’t want to see, taste, hear, or know anything else . . . ever. I kept fidgeting and trying not to think about what had just happened. I wanted not to think about friends that I had left behind.

Everyone on the train was reaching out to their loved ones, using cell phones and writing e-mails. There we were, survivors, reeling from the shock of our morning; many aware of our need for God but still not calling to Him. Instead, we used our cell phones to call our homes. It’s a perfectly natural right . . . to reach out to our loved ones in times of stress.

Eventually I tried calling Eliot’s school and then his grandmother. It was difficult recalling phone numbers, and when I did, I couldn’t get a signal. After trying a few times, I gave up and leaned back to relax, but I couldn’t fight back thoughts about what had happened. Was it really an act of terrorism? Why would they attack us? What were they planning? Were they now attacking upstate, burning down schools and wreaking havoc near my home? I started fidgeting again and looking in my laptop bag . . . for nothing.

John squirmed too. He peered out the windows and babbled to himself from time to time about reenlisting and Pearl Harbor. His anger took control of him. His face became red and he squeezed his fists tighter and tighter when he spoke. I saw his teeth clenched behind his jaws in a nervous mania between action and resolute anger. I was afraid for him. I was afraid of him. I was scared that somehow our government, now faced with war, was so angry, desperate, and afraid that it would allow John and all the “Johns” in the U.S. to go fight.

“Please, John, try to relax. Okay?” He looked at me as if I had said the most absurd thing he had ever heard. I closed my eyes. I wanted to ignore him and the gigantic headache that was splitting my head into pieces.

The train rattled along in silence. The conductor didn’t even announce the stops.

We arrived at John’s stop. Mine was next. He looked at me almost questioningly and said, “Take care, Leslie.” I nodded and we hugged good-bye. My heart skipped a beat. I was afraid, nervous, and didn’t want to be alone. What if something bad happened on the train? I was afraid even to go home.

God gave me my daughter in 2000. Monai came to live with me when she was sixteen. In my eyes she was a shy and still angry little girl who doubted her worthiness to be loved. She was unsure about life and confused about me.

She didn’t remember her biological mother and couldn’t understand how a mom could walk away from her child. I watched her get lost searching for meaning in her memories and withdraw. I watched her sometimes move from laughter to anger in minutes. As difficult as it was at times, I made a commitment and I loved her.

I looked for ways to convince her to trust me. Though it wasn’t easy, after almost a year of finding the balance between long lectures and longer hugs, lots of questions and more answers, I saw the emergence of a beautifully confident young woman. There was light growing inside those dark eyes and I loved it.

Though legally Monai is still not mine, our matters are now heart matters, and so she calls me her Leslie and lets me call her my daughter. She has embraced the family tradition of Friday nights and pizza, and with the exception of Eliot, she is the only person I know who can watch the same movie three times in one night . . . blissfully.

I felt panic grow inside me when I realized how scared and lonely Monai must have been feeling. She wouldn’t survive losing another mother. “Dear God, take care of my family. Please let my children be all right. Keep them safe and comfort them.”

My stop.

I got off the train and walked toward my car. The air was still thin and crisp—fresh and undaunted by the events in Manhattan. I was miles away and safe. . . .

The walk through the parking lot was strange. I was hypersensitive. I kept noticing my feet. I could feel every muscle and nerve ending in my soles as they struck the hard cement beneath them. My skin was so sensitive and my senses were overly aware of everything. I even noticed a subtle shift in the wind.

It was a primal, almost instinctive awareness that made me even more panicky at the sounds of hustling feet and starting cars. I looked around nervously at a few other passengers moving at a fast pace toward their cars. The sound of my own quick breaths startled me. I could hear myself breathe from deep within my chest again. It echoed.

As I approached the center of the parking lot, which by now was almost empty, my heart beat faster. I had parked in the same place I always did, so I walked toward my car with no clear or cognizant thoughts. Getting home would be the challenge. Okay, okay, I thought. Which way is home? I started my car and drove. I don’t know how fast or how slow, I just drove—feeling the air in my face and inhaling the crisp air that lingered around the mountains. I almost closed my eyes. If I had any presence of mind at all, I would have been wishing that I had stretched that morning’s seventeen-minute drive to twenty-five, at a cruising speed of thirty miles per hour, to miss the morning train and have that hooky day.

The second is this: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” There is no commandment greater than these. (Mark 12:31)

I moved into my home in March of 1997. I spent the first weekend cleaning, polishing, and congratulating myself on my accomplishment. By the third day, my neighbors Marcia Kissel and her daughter Valerie surprised me with a large plate of homemade coconut cookies and a “welcome to the neighborhood” card. It was love at first sight, with the cookies. Marcia took some getting used to.

About sixty-five years old, Marcia is full of sincerity, love, and words of wisdom. She has a quiet unassuming presence, but is very deliberate in her actions. Her fine blond hair has soft shades of gray throughout. She wears it neatly combed and pulled back from her round, beautifully aged face. With a slow, intentional grace and ease of civility, Marcia offers advice to every open, or not, ear.

Not even a month after I had moved in, she was excusing herself and telling me what not to do in my flower garden, and watching my son play in the backyard or swim in the pool. There she was offering a keen eye, a phone call, or just words of wisdom. I thought to myself, Oh, boy, another mother.

September 11, 2001

Time Unknown

I pulled into my driveway and saw Marcia standing in her driveway talking with Valerie. I calmly got out of the car and lifted my hand to wave hello, but “hello” never happened.

What did happen however, was “that” scream. The scream that had started deep in my belly hours before and growled in my gut every time I saw a body or body part; the scream that got bigger every time I passed another person too afraid to escape and paralyzed me each time I ignored a cry for help. The scream that had haunted me in the stairs, on the concourse, and through the halls. The scream that had stolen my breath and left me spent and hopeless time after time. The scream that had waited idle until now.

I felt it reach down deep in my gut, gather to itself every emotion that I had experienced all day, expand beyond my own understanding, and consume every inch of available space outside of me. It robbed me of my knees, stole any remaining sense of place, time, and self, and . . . EXPLODED!

I WAILED!

Marcia would have to describe what exactly happened next as I only remember seeing her jump the fence between our homes. I remember a bath, the feel of the water washing away dust and smoke and tears and blood and visions and pain and years of ego, pride, and self-righteousness. I remember the safety of Marcia’s lap and her warm soft hands stroking my face and quietly whispering to me.

There is something very special about true love. Unfortunately, many of us only recognize it in retrospect.

Thank God for advice about flowers and for neighbors who care enough to watch your children play safely and offer kind words of wisdom. Thank God for another mother.

After my bath, I turned the television on to the news. Marcia strongly advised against it, but I had to see it for myself. I needed answers.

Every station played clips of the attack. Newscasters themselves were emotionally tossed and struggled to put the pieces together. They stumbled over words like “This just in” and “In an apparent terrorist attack” while a traumatized world watched the towers collapse over and over again. How could they convey to a revenge-hungry, even ravenous country, a carnage that they themselves did not understand?

The whole world was in shock, and the media struggled to recapture that one moment at 8:46 a.m. that changed the course of our nation.

I will never forget the confusion I felt when I saw the TV coverage for the first time. Had it not been for the fact that I was there when it happened, I would have sworn what I was seeing on the news was a different building entirely.

You see, my recollection was of a building defeated on the first blow and crumbling from the moment of impact. There was no pretense on the inside. Beams were contracting, walls were caving in, and floors collapsed seconds after the first impact. That building was coming down.

What I experienced was not a conspiracy or question of how many bombs went off and caused the fall. It was quite honestly a towering inferno, and its demise was like 110 stories of dominos, the first one tipped when an American Airlines weapon of mass destruction crashed into Tower One.

Every channel showed what they thought they saw, which was two towers after the initial attack with some damage from the crashes and a lot of smoke. What cameras saw from the outside was NOT what was going on inside. They showed the world the towers severely injured but standing strong and still fighting.

It is no wonder the world was surprised when they fell. It is no wonder that the shock wave was so all-consuming that it left our president speechless. They never saw it coming.

Marcia spoke later about times changing and sleeper cells, and then President Bush gave foreign nations an immediate choice in their relationship with the United States. In plain English, black and white, he said, “You’re either with us or you’re against us” in the fight against terrorism.

These were powerful words, and at first everyone applauded his boldness. The words good and evil incited ideas of “justice” and restored our belief in “freedom.” The notion of a war on terror and obliterating Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda were quickly embraced. What we were blinded to in our demand for justice was that a war on terror meant more people would die.

My phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Leslie?”

“Yes. Lawrence?”

“Yes. Are you okay, little girl?”

“I think so.” Silence. Then the question, “Lawrence, does this mean what I think it means?”

With no hesitation came the answer, “Yes.”

I cried. He told me he would pray for me, and we hung up the phone.

My brother has always been my rod. I weigh the significance of most things by his reactions or his words. Neither of us needed full sentences to understand the other. Now he was confirming for me that 8:46 that morning did not simply mark the beginning of a war or change the course of our nation; it was much more significant than just that. It signaled the crossing over of time in the end of days.

My attention turned back to the TV coverage, almost expecting to see Jesus in the clouds. I’m not sure if I was more terrified of Osama bin Laden or Jesus Christ’s return. In that moment, neither looked good to me. I wasn’t ready.

I was so shook up that I passed out on Marcia’s lap. She held me.

I woke to a surreal type of silence, then a screech of tires in my driveway. I peed on myself. Monai walked through the door slowly at first, cautiously and unsure. She was obviously dreading what she might find in place of the woman she watched leave for work that morning. She looked at me but kept her distance. Her eyes filled. The sigh from her heart filled the room.

Then, just behind her, my joy returned to me. I opened wide my arms to receive my only son. He ran to me with tears of relief and praises to the Lord for bringing Mommy home. I exhaled his name . . . Eliot.

We looked at each other and cried tears of joy in the unfamiliar beauty of surrender—WEAK.

We merged the weight of every power lunch and play date until we could in perfect rhythm and easy gracefulness release the day—FAILED.

We embraced the new beat—COLLAPSED.

But the father said to his servants . . .”Let’s have a feast and celebrate. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” So they began to celebrate. (Luke 15:22, 24)

I was home!

About the Author

LESLIE HASKIN is one of fifteen children born of humble beginnings to a Baptist minister in Chicago. Her drive for success and independence led her to New York in 1987, and later to Kemper Insurance Company in 2001, where she achieved great success. She became the director of operations and one of only two African-Americans to hold executive title within the corporation’s eastern region. Her office was on the thirty-sixth floor of the World Trade Center, Tower One, where on September 11, 2001, she almost lost her life.

Today this single parent is active in outreach ministry. Her message is simple: “God is bigger than our burdens.” She is the founder of a ministry designed to provide rehabilitation and healing to women and children who are homeless and victims of domestic violence. She has written four books to date: Between Heaven and Ground Zero, Held, God Has Not Forgotten About You, and When Life Doesn’t Make Sense (to be published 2012).

Leslie has become a favorite on national media such as CNN, The 700 Club, and Moody Radio, and has appeared at several memorials honoring the victims and survivors of 9/11. She has served as keynote speaker at national and regional conferences throughout the United States, including The West Point Women of the Chapel, North American Missions Board—World Changes, and The Place of Surrender Singles Conference. She makes her home in the Catskill Mountains of New York. For more information, visit www.lesliehaskin.net.

Timeline

September 11, 2001

8:46 a.m.

Terrorists crash American Airlines Flight 11 into the World Trade Center’s north tower, floors 93–99.

9:03 a.m.

Terrorists crash United Airlines Flight 175 into the south tower, floors 77–85.

9:37 a.m.

Terrorists crash American Airlines Flight 77 into the Pentagon.

9:59 a.m.

The south tower collapses.

10:03 a.m.

Hijacked United Airlines Flight 93 crashes near Shanksville, Pennsylvania.

10:28 a.m.

The north tower collapses.

* * *

The attacks on the World Trade Center killed 2,749 people.

In all, 2,973 people died as a result of the attacks on September 11, 2001.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

A Note to the Reader

Introduction

PART ONE: In the Beginning

Chapter 1: Eight Million Stories

Chapter 2: September 11

Chapter 3: Tower One

Chapter 4: . . . and the Super Ego

Chapter 5: Strike One

Chapter 6: Step-by-Step

PART TWO: The Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter 7: Strike Two

Chapter 8: Exit Center

Chapter 9: War Zone

Chapter 10: The Birth of Inspiration

Chapter 11: Goliath Falls

Chapter 12: It Is Finished

Chapter 13: Going Home

About the Author

Timeline of September 11, 2001

Back Cover