Dear Ronald, Today I felt something in my chest. No, it wasn’t a heart attack, thank God! It was the rough emotional texture of scar tissue left in my soul and my mind after heartbreak. And it’s not just heartbreak; it’s a kind of mild—very mild—PTSD. There’s no mystery to its origin, of course. It goes back to that horrific Tuesday morning 12 years ago. Please bear with me as I relive it with you. As I turn my attention to the feelings from that day, lightening bolts of memory discharge across my synapses: My secretary opening my office door with a look of shock on her face. “Something happened in New York,” she muttered. The staff gathering around a computer monitor and the uncertain voices of morning show anchors; a plume of dark smoke snaking its way into the sky from the side of one of the Twin Trade Towers; a second explosion, then an announcement that a plane has collided with the Pentagon just a short distance away; frantic phone calls to my daughter living at our ministry center; another announcement about another hijacked plane headed for Washington and my frantic order, “Get out of the building now! Get in your car! Go east now!” 2001: Three days after 9-11, the Rev. Rob Schenck led a procession of pastors from various denominations to the attack site at the Pentagon where they led emergency responders and passersby in prayer. Fast forward as thoughts rush through my mind: The first named fatality on Flight 77 into the Pentagon was Barbara Olson. Dear God, Cheryl and I had just met her at a dinner at the Supreme Court. Leading a procession of pastors from all denominations to a ridge just opposite the smoking cavity in the western wall of the Pentagon. Passersby weeping, holding their mouths in horror, praying with us the Lord’s Prayer on their knees near parking lamps sheered off by the plane’s underbelly, littering the lot like toothpicks. A golf cart ride up to the crash site, the charred silhouette of the plane’s wings, tail, and fuselage carved into the cavernous hole. Then a train ride to New York in search of friends and ministry supporters. Pastor Kirk van der Swaagh and I, mute and ambling down Church Street toward billows of white smoke and sirens and sounds of heavy equipment. The stench of burning plastic and vinyl. A church graveyard, brimming over with debris: computers, a desk chair, a purse, shoes, papers, papers, papers, inundating 18th-century tombstones. Abandoned cars, doors flung open in a panic; a child’s empty car seat in one of them. The dust-covered chaplains with their perspiration-stained caps, pleading: “No break in 30 hours. Can you relieve us?” Of course we will. Pastor van der Swaagh and I making rounds to clusters of first responders. Firefighters with bloody eyes from the airborne particulates. Prayers, signs of the cross. My NYPD escort: “Look at your shoes, Parson. My buddies are in that dust. My buddies are on your shoes.” Dirty tears. Another announcement: Father Mychal Judge, a Catholic priest I knew from pro-life work and a New York Fire Department chaplain, was being carried out of the rubble. He died administering last rites to a fallen comrade. I cry now as I write this to you today. The scar is not gone and never will be. Too much death. Too much loss. Too much pain. Too much evil. Where was God? Where was good? Where was human? There were few answers during those days, but they would come: in the stories, in the memories, in the loving, in the resolve, in the memorials. I went to the Pentagon Memorial this week to remember, to pray, to pay tribute. I found Barbara Olson’s name and visualized her coming around the corner at that dinner, introducing myself to her, her ebullient smile. “What a delightful person,” I said to my wife. I still cringe just a bit when a plane flies low over the Pentagon on approach to Reagan National Airport. Part of the scarring, part of the risk of living in Washington, DC. But I’m resolved. God called me here. I am so very, very happy I was here during those days. I am so very, very happy I could comfort, shepherd, guide souls in the aftermath of those dark days. I was so very, very happy to bear the witness of a living, loving God in the midst of so much doubt, pain, confusion, anger, and fear. A few months after the tragedy I had signed on to the U.S. Senate Chaplain’s Pastoral Care Response Team. I carry the identification card in my wallet. I used it yesterday for clearance at the Pentagon. In the event of a future catastrophe, I’ve promised to be there again, as quickly as possible, for the care of souls. Thank you for letting me do this. You make this possible. Your prayers, your encouragement, and your kind financial support allow me to obey the call of God. We’re in this together. May I count on you again now for more help? Your tax-deductible gift this month of $35, $50, $100, $500 or more strengthens my resolve—and it’s really needed. I’m grateful to the Lord and to you for the privilege of serving Him here. Click here to make your donation online today. Thank you in advance for your support this month. Your always-thankful missionary to our nation’s capital, Rev. Rob Schenck
Posted on: Wed, 11 Sep 2013 19:08:27 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015