"The Sentinels" (Continued...) -- Pt. 2

So I raced down those steps that awful September 11th morning and... and... Oh, my God -- ohmyGod, ohmyGod ... they were ablaze like no fire anyone in America has ever seen. What on earth was it? An atomic bomb? The anti-Christ? (well, yes, I was later to come to the conclusion -- and am still of the opinion -- that he is indeed here -- but that's a discussion for another time; a theological one) -- My God, all we could exclaim was a plaintive calling on the Holy One ...

I couldn't believe my eyes ... the horror ... None of us who were there (and I was to be there at Ground Zero within the first 24 hours of this calamity) ... none of us who were in the City or who looked upon the horror -- no one seems to be able to find adequate words to describe for you what that looked like. And for those of us who knew New York before those Towers -- and during those Towers -- and now, watching them, seeing what appeared to be pieces of building flying off those towers -- but we would later find out -- oh, dear heaven, those are human beings -- and they are making the choice to jump to their deaths rather than roast ... Who could've done something so evil? Who could imagine something so hideous? For, this early on that Tuesday morning, we knew this was not an accident ... and the second plane was all we needed to know that ... and here I was, my home only yards behind me, and only walking distance from those clouds of burning fuel! Those clouds of burning carnage, of pulverized cement, stone, humanity, causing clouds of soot and flame taller than most of the skyscrapers I'd grown up with! I could only think, thank God I consumed the Blessed Sacrament ...

But then, across the street, I saw the crowds and the medical people in front of "St. V's". There were the ambulances lined up like soldiers from all over the city, and the gurneys, the wheelchairs, and -- wow! -- they'd even taken out office chairs -- all in anticipation of hordes of patients, victims of this holocaust, this twisted, misguided burnt offering. And there were the reporters, the television cameras, the lot of them -- all of New York seemed to come out for this -- all of New York seemed to be quaking, shaking, frightened of what might be happening, of what might happen next. I approached the police stanchion at the corner of 11th. A man wearing gold -- shield, buttons, insignia ... a captain, perhaps. "Go right through, Father," this tall, gray and exceptionally young looking cop said with the closest thing he could muster into looking like a smile. And so there I was suddenly being handed rubber gloves, a mask.

Suddenly limousines and armored cars came swerving to that intersection and our now legendary, (Mayor) Rudolf Giuliani suddenly was in our midst. Another limo. Edward Cardinal Egan, Archbishop of New York was suddenly there with only one monsignor serving him -- his faithful secretary -- but he, His Eminence, without the fanfare of his exalted office -- just joined the rest of us -- priests, rabbis, ministers and the doctors, the volunteers, the nurses, Sister Mary. Sister Alberta, the wonderful Polish nun who'd shared so many moments with me inside that hospital, as we served God's loved ones over the years.

The AIDS folks, for example, who'd ask you one day, "Hey, Father, when you come tomorrow, would you bring me some cigs and a couple Mounds bars?" And you'd come back the next day and the bed would be empty and the kid would've left for the Father's house. And Sr. Alberta was such a rock to me when those times came, early on in my career -- and here she was, staring like I was -- looking "downtown" -- waiting for the ambulances. And every once in a great while, there'd be one -- with one fireman or two -- some severely burned ... within that first hour, I saw one of those "boys" die just as they'd lowered the gurney off the ambulance ... and I pushed my way to him, but they didn't know what the contamination level was, so they kind of held me back -- and I had to "anoint" the corner of the sheet they'd shrouded him with ... God understands, I had no doubt.

And the Cardinal, looking for all the world like a simple parish priest, with oil stock in hand and violet stole in place -- like the rest of us -- waited for someone, anyone, who might need the suffrage of a priest. He watched us, though. He didn't reach the height he has for nothing. He's a bishop, I thought, he knows everything that's happening! And he came to two of us -- my friend and colleague, Fr. Richard Weinkauf and me -- and embraced each of us in turn with the word, "Good work, Father." That day, he and Rudy entered a new chamber in my personal Hall of Fame ...

All that day, the next and the next and the next -- in fact, that whole week, I thought might soon become a blur .... On the contrary: it has burned into my soul the most vivid memories I think I will ever have ... It was the week the world stood still. It was the week that the Homeland was violated ... the week that cries to heaven for mercy ...

That first day, Fr. Richard and I and a priest we "picked up along the way", Fr. Damien, who assured me he was not a leper, stood there with all the medics -- waiting, waiting. We spent many unbelievable hours tending to the "walking wounded," because contrary to the talking heads, there were many at St. V's who were civilians and were brought after escaping the falling inferno. It was the eyes at first. That look of shock that is unmistakable and that pulls at the heart -- that makes you feel sorrow for the one who is in that place, mostly because you know, you know how much it's going to hurt when they come out of it ... So many different stories ... the one's who got away were a really assorted lot ... but New Yorkers all. Like the security guard who'd been sitting on the ground level of Building One and because of the implosion, was thrown through a plate glass window completely across the street without a scratch on him. But, wow, the guy was out there, may God bless him wherever he is. There were those we could only feed fruit salad to, because they just couldn't handle anything more -- and the sugar kept them from "going under."

Then I turned around and there in the midst of the chaos in the ground level of St. V's was an old friend, Fr. Chris Keenan, o.f.m., of the community of Franciscans who run St. Francis' church in midtown -- an oasis for generations and generations for almost all the Catholics -- and many others -- in New York ... Even as ruffians in Brooklyn, when you wanted to get an "easy absolution", it was St. Francis' to the rescue. Good Father Chris, doing miracles all over the place, hugging people, loving them out of shock, a bowl of fruit salad in one arm and that Irish smile that could melt a traffic cop ... He saw me and came over with a hug ... then he gave me the shocking, almost unbearable news: his brother in the order, another old friend -- of all of us -- the celebrated Fire Chaplain of New York's firefighters, the beloved Mychal Judge, o.f.m., has been killed a short while before ... Oh, God, not Mychal ... not that hero of legend . .. but, yeah, he was out there giving one of his beloved fire boys the Last Rites of Holy Mother Church (and, yes, I know, we're now not supposed to call it that -- it's the Sacrament of the Sick -- but in this instance ... it was very last rites!) when a piece of that building that those who hate had destroyed took this gentle, loving, godly man -- a martyr not only for the faith but for his beloved city and his beloved fire guys ... The picture of him, dead, being carried out like Christ to the tomb of Joseph of Aramathea, was a pieta for the world to see ... a reminder that those who follow Christ are really and truly asked to follow him to Calvary ... And these enemies of my country and yours, they claim they do this in the Name of God ... Not my God, Taliban boys!! Not my God!! See, I've got a God who loves! And an evangelist who tells me in three little words what God is -- I'm talking about St. John, Taliban-boys, St. John who says very simply: "God is Love ...'

But, thank that God, we, Richard and I, really didn't have time to mourn much ... We were needed at the impromptu "family center" -- over there at the New School University -- long before the "professionals" took over and placed it uptown. Hey, God, you know how much I love You -- Please, please, give me words -- any words -- to say to the frightened, shocked and bereft who are streaming in with pictures of the "missing" -- their beloved wives, lovers, husbands, children ... What to say to a man my age, looking for his 30 year old "boy"? How can I tell him that the son he adored is gone forever? and on it went through the evening ... until my feet were numb just like my head ... and somehow I lost Fr. Richard ... but later found out that he and Fr. Damien hitched a ride to Ground Zero. I went back to St. Vincent's, though, to see whatever else I could do ...

A city in shock -- in horror ... All I could do after that day was fall into my bed ... Then, then I allowed myself the cry of a lifetime ....

There was no sleeping through Tiffany's beep-beep the next morning ... so I raced to meet Richard and Damian at good old St. V's -- By now, we knew that our country, our city, and civilization -- all of us -- had been victims of a kind of viciousness, a hatred, we will never be able to understand ...

This time, however, we were able to leave the hordes of newsmen hanging out at the hospital around the clock -- even though, for just a moment I was called over by Joe Torres of Eyewitness News and asked for an interview ... It must've been the quickest one on record, because in minutes I was on a mini-bus with my priestly pals, two cops and a couple of docs, resting on some relief bottles of water and a few oxygen tanks ... Hope nobody lights up a ciggie, I thought ... but then again, what the hell's the difference? We're visiting Armageddon anyway ...


.... Down Seventh Avenue we sped ... through streets I was as familiar with as I was with the sound of my own voice, the back of my own hand. And suddenly -- it took the breath out of you, it made you feel like you got a belt in the chops ... there it was -- oh, man, and when I think of it today, I'm so miserably aware of why no one can describe it. Imagine the end of the world, with a blizzard of ash, cinder, debris swirling around you ... and then -- oh, dear Holy Mary Mother of God -- the 100 foot mountains of ash, the debris, the bodies in bags -- the pieces of bodies in bags -- everything, every-goddamn-thing covered in mountains of ash -- and a gigantic hole in the sky ...

We did simple things ... we washed out the eyes of the firemen with saline solution -- and they were grateful ... and we gave them some water and an apple and some orange juice ... and they were like these massive little boys (and a few girls, I should add) who were having their faces and eyes washed by these old men in Roman collars, covered in gray ash and mud, just hoping, praying they could be of some service -- Hoping we could do what our Boss would've done ... And he would've wept too ... There were the very rare moments of lightening it up ... One big, handsome Irish boy with eyes as blue as your backyard pool, got to my "station" and I was privileged to clean that singular face which I can see now, and which I will never forget, with a little white towel, and flush those blue pools out with some solution, and I couldn't stand it another minute. "Oh, my God, man ..." "What, Father, what?" "Oh, man, I don't know how it happened ... must've been the saline solution ... " "What, Father, come on, what's happening?" "Well, it's your eyes, they're ... they're crossed!" The look on his face -- this kid who'd just come out of hell and carried people to life -- these kids saved maybe 25,000 people down there -- well, he just looked at me with all this belief that a good Irish Catholic boy brings to a relationship -- even of one minute or so -- with a priest. And then he realized I was having him -- and that face beamed, "Oh, Father, you're a piece of work ..."

I'll remember that forever because at the end of the week, I was honored to participate in Mike Judge's funeral ... and when I left the church, I went to see "Mike's Firehouse" -- only Mike could have his fire house directly across the street from his church and his monastery. And after looking at the makeshift shrine to Mike and that wonderful picture that has been seen by the whole world ... there it was ... a picture of that boy -- at least I was certain it was. But I was at the "site" on the second day ... Weren't those kids all out of harm's way by then? I can't remember his name, but I am quite sure it was him ... Our moment together may have been one of the last of his young life ...

And I'm so grateful to God -- before he went on, went back down into that pit -- he asked, as all good Catholic boys do, for my blessing (which we all know is not my blessing, but the priest blesses in the Name of his Master) -- and I gave it -- and then, strangely, he asked me to anoint him -- and I make a quick cross on that broad forehead ... and I wished him everything good ... he's somewhere in the Heart of God now and there's a New York mourning him and 4,000+ others -- all of whom were loved in life -- and might be loved even more in death ... But I keep hoping I'm wrong -- that it was not that face I saw in that picture ...

We spent some more hours there at Ground Zero. We had to run like hell once because it looked like One Liberty Plaza was going to fall on our heads ... and I never saw three decrepit old padres -- one bearded, one on a cane, and one on feet whose arches collapsed a long time ago ... run like hell -- Sorry, no building's falling on these three old padres today -- you've already taken a priest -- leave us alone ... And I know my heart will never again be the same -- and yet somehow I know that -- and don't ask me how it can be, because I don't know how He works ... but somehow I have 3,000+ new friends who walk with me and protect me in a way I've never known before.