Sermons
Ground Zero: The physical, the emotional, and the
spiritual
Beverly Waring, LICSW, First Parish of Sudbury, June 30, 2002
The service describes my experience at Ground Zero in November
2001. I was there as a Red Cross mental health volunteer (I am
a licensed social worker by profession). All of the words in the service
including all the poetry were written by me. The poetry that is intersprsed
throughout the sermon could obviously be used seperately if that is
desirable. - Beverly Waring, LICSW
OPENING WORDS
My opening words were written late one night while I was trying to
write the main body of this talk. I was having some difficulty getting
the words from my heart and head through my fingers and onto the computer
screen - so I just let this come out instead.
Bringing It All Back
I thought I was better.
The dreams are less frequent.
The images less vivid.
The flashbacks almost completely gone
Writing, processing, talking, healing
That is the flow of it all.
That is the sequence of getting better.
Sometimes it is not that easy.
The sight of a fire fighter brings it all back.
The smell of a medical procedure brings it all back.
The sound of a plane roaring overhead brings it all back.
The sadness of an unrelated death brings it all back.
The sequence interrupted, begin again.
Writing, processing, talking, healing.
I think I'm getting better - again.
June 27, 2002
READING
I wrote this poem on September 24th, 2001. I was driving to a meeting
listening to NPR on the radio. They had some poets on and they were
encouraging people to write about how they experienced the events of
September 11th. The following poem seemed to enter my mind as a completed
piece and I actually was able to put it in writing hours later when
I finally got home and in front of my computer.
September 11th 2001 did not affect me
I was not affected.
Listening to a book on tape as I drove to work
it took the panicked call of a co-worker to get me to turn on the radio
to hear the sorrow and disbelief in the newscaster's voice.
Working the rest of the day seemed impossible
I was not affected.
No visual images entered my world until 14 hours after the tragedy.
I had no time for television until after 11 that night because
I needed to be at my church to comfort dozens who came
to talk and cry and pray and just be with someone.
I was not affected.
I did not know personally anyone on the planes used as weapons.
My mode of transportation has always been the automobile.
And that will continue to be so
if I ever again have the desire to be away from home and family and
friends.
I was not affected.
I did not know anyone working in those majestic towers
that once stood tall and proud over New York City.
Nor did I know anyone working in the Pentagon
once thought of as our government's safest building.
And I am sure that the fear I feel every time I think of my son,
working in the financial district of Boston with his dream
of a career on Wall Street,
will pass with time.
I was not affected.
The police officers and fire fighters who bravely ran towards their
death,
while people with survival on their mind ran the other way,
were strangers to me.
My police officer brother is safe, patrolling streets miles from New
York City.
Or at least that is what I now tell myself every night.
I was not affected.
I did not know personally anyone lost or missing
in New York, Washington or Pennsylvania.
The tears I shed are for thousands of strangers killed.
And tens of thousands of strangers who called those victims
mom, dad, son, daughter, brother, sister, lover, friend.
And I now have the need to tell my mom and dad, brothers and sister,
my son, my lover and friends,
I love you
much more often than ever before.
But I was not affected.
September 24, 2001
Ground Zero: The physical, the emotional, and the
spiritual.
I'm not sure why I felt compelled to go. Obviously I was not totally
unaffected as the title (if not the words) of my reading would have
you believe. But actually go to NYC and pretend to have anything to
offer? What was I thinking? Nonetheless, when someone I work with said
the Red Cross was looking for licensed social workers I responded. And
when my employer said I would have to go on my own time, I didn't give
using two weeks vacation a second thought. Now, not many people can
say they vacationed at Ground Zero, but I am probably not like many
people you know. .Yet, despite this, several days later when the Red
Cross called me and on relatively short notice asked me to attend a
two day training on a weekend in preparation for going to New York early
the following week, I answered yes to the call. For reasons never really
clear to me I felt driven, I felt I had no choice but to go to NYC and
counsel victims, relatives and workers affected by the collapse of the
World Trade Center Towers. In fact, so driven and dedicated were the
dozen of us being trained that when, in the middle of 2nd day of training,
we were told we were not needed in NY and would not be going that week
our reactions were far from predictable. We felt no relief but instead
disappointment. We felt not just frustration but anger. We were ready,
we were up, we were called. I can remember the last email I sent to
this group of colleagues. A group with which I had bonded so quickly
during our training. In the subject line of my email I wrote, "I've
done all I can to get us sent." And, although I'm not superstitious,
thinking I could have some control over our destiny, by using reverse
psychology of a sort, I scheduled the next couple of weeks so full that
it would be really hard to change plans and actually go to NYC. So in
this email I listed all I'd done to get us sent. Things such as booking
a really long week at work, setting up several meetings that would be
a pain to reschedule, getting tickets for a concert the following weekend
and unpacking the suitcase that had stayed packed since the original
plans were made.
The next day, Veterans Day - the plane on its way from NYC to the Dominican
Republic went down in Rockaway. That Wednesday, four of us got called
to leave for NYC on Friday. My desire to go, my frustration over not
going, was replaced by a vague sense of guilt - because of yet another
tragedy, I was on my way to the experience of a lifetime.
In typical fashion at least for me, things did not start off totally
smoothly. The Red Cross felt it was important for them to show the American
public that air travel was safe. Therefore, they wanted all their volunteers
to fly to their assignments. Take a plane to the scene of a plane crash
- I'm dedicated, I'm caring, I'm competent, I told the person making
travel arrangements, but I'm not crazy. So I went by train.
Our first full day in NY the four of us from Massachusetts were teamed
up with about a dozen volunteers from across the country. We were sent
to the neighborhood of Rockaway where the plane crashed on Veteran's
Day. Our first task was to go door to door in pairs and find out how
everyone was doing since the air crash in their neighborhood. Our script
went something like this" Hello, we are with the American Red Cross.
We are canvassing the neighborhood today to talk with you. And to see
how you are doing since the air crash on Monday." We had no idea
what to expect, people react differently in crisis and this was a close-knit
community. What we found were Orthodox Jews and Catholics alike opening
their doors to us on a Saturday. They offered us food, water, support,
and thanks. We heard endless stories of heroism and fear. Of close calls
and hopelessness. Of thanking God and mistrusting the government. Many
were unable to accept the announcement that the plane crash was an accident.
This was a neighborhood that saw the twin towers every day when they
went outside and looked across the water. Every day until the towers
were no longer there. This was a neighborhood of many active and retired
fire fighters and police officers. This was no accident many said.
Yet, at the same time people were talking about the blessing that the
plane went straight down, only destroying one home and killing very
few on the ground when it could have physically devastated the whole
neighborhood.
I can still see clearly my first view of the area where the plane crashed
in Rockaway. There was a pile of rubble where a house once stood yet
the garage and front brick stairs were intact. The house on one side
of this devastation was untouched, while the house on the other side
was half destroyed with melted siding and blown out windows. A charred
tree across the street in the yard of an otherwise untouched house gave
it all a surreal appearance.
But what I remember most are the people. The way they were pulling
together. In the house that was totally destroyed lived a family of
four. The mother and young adult son were killed. The father and teenage
daughter were not home at the time of the crash and thus were spared.
Friends and neighbors immediately got together money so that the father
and daughter could buy some clothes to replace a little of what they
had lost. And other neighbors went to boxes in their attics and into
photo albums and found pictures from parties and barbecues so that this
grieving husband and father, daughter and sister could have pictures
of their loved ones to comfort them. The spirit of the people in this
neighborhood was inspirational.
The following day was spent on buses - first going with the Dominican
family members of the Rockaway plane crash victims to a memorial service
at a park near the crash site and later going to the crash site itself
and finally back to Brooklyn or the Bronx or wherever your bus had originated
from. It was 12 hours with the same group of family members - being
with them, bearing witness to their loss, trying to comfort those suffering
inconsolable grief.
And when we arrived for the tour of the crash site those same neighborhood
residents who a day earlier, even in the sorrow of their own loss, had
been so welcoming to us Red Cross volunteers, those same people, were
out in force, giving out homemade cookies and brownies, feeding the
body, while heart sick family members, trying to nourish their souls
were herded quickly, too quickly for the social worker in me, past the
remains of the funeral pyre of their loved ones.
The strength and dignity I witnessed that day will stay with me forever.
I felt then and still feel today humbled and honored at being allowed
to be present, bear witness and soothe broken hearts that day.
The next day several of us from the Disaster Mental Health Team in
Rockaway got word that we were being sent to Manhattan, to Ground Zero
to continue our work there. We would either be working with survivors,
families of victims or rescue workers of the first tragedy at the World
Trade Center. My new assignment ended up being at a place called Respite
1. This was actually the Student Center of St. John's University turned
into a place for rescue workers to go and take breaks by virtue of its
location inside the perimeter of a place called ground zero. The main
part of the building was a large dining room where I spent many hours
sharing food, stories and words of comfort with rescue workers, telephone
technicians, investigators, and construction workers. There were also
tables of letters and cards of sympathy and support from all over the
country at Respite 1. There were mental health clinicians and clergy
available for anyone who requested to speak to someone. Early on, not
many requested it. Their guard was up, their faces were stone and no
one wanted to let the hurt out or the caring in. The following poem
speaks to what I saw in these brave people my first day at Ground Zero:
Tears Flow Easily Emotions Run High
Tears flow easily, emotions run high
But all is hidden behind the façade of being strong.
Firefighters and police officers used to tragedy
Close their eyes and shake their heads
At the suffering making
Tears flow easily and emotions run high.
Hidden behind the façade of being strong.
Brave men and women stoically do their jobs
Digging, searching, sifting, identifying
Unspeakable horror making
Tears flow easily and emotions run high.
Hidden behind the façade of being strong.
Construction workers, telephone techs, electricians
Operating the machines, running the wires, keeping things going
Speak of images of war zones making
Tears flow easily and emotions run high.
Hidden behind the façade of being strong.
Sanitation workers no longer called garbage men
Don't acknowledge that the cargo they are trucking was once alive
But now part of the rubble making
Tears flow easily and emotions run high.
Hidden behind the façade of being strong.
Clergy of all faiths and denominations
Attempt to answer why? And how? And where is God?
While doubts of their own gnaw at their hearts making
Tears flow easily and emotions run high.
Hidden behind the façade of being strong.
Social Workers and Mental Health Clinicians
Trained to counsel, prepared to help
Hear and see the unthinkable making
Tears flow easily and emotions run high.
Hidden behind the façade of being strong.
December 11, 2001
So every day I got on a shuttle bus at 6:45 am, rode to the other
side of Manhattan, entered Respite 1, did my thing for 8 hours and at
4:30 got back on the shuttle for the trip back to my hotel. It was sometimes
quite a challenge to get folks to talk - when they came in from their
grueling work they often needed to pretend at least for a little while
that this was a normal day for them. One of my favorite ways to break
the ice was to walk around with my arms and the pockets of my Red Cross
vest full of stuffed animals. It was hard for even the most seasoned
police officer or toughest construction worker to watch me walk by without
commenting and all I needed was one word of encouragement and I was
engaging them in conversation. And I know deep in my heart that the
talk of stuffed animals and the conversations about the person in their
life who would appreciate the one they had chosen was much more meaningful
then the words would have you believe. We all need to cover up our true
emotions sometimes. Especially in times of extreme crisis, deep sorrow,
it is too scary to really let the feelings surface. But as long as we
let the benefit of comfort in we don't always need to let the acknowledgement
of that benefit out. For me, in NYC, it was enough to know that my concern
and empathy and support was being received - I was giving it freely
and did not need to receive anything in return. The experiences with
the stuffed animals inspired this poem.
Choosing The Right One
Stuffed animals of all kinds
Teddy Bears, brown and fuzzy
Kittens soft and fluffy
Dogs cute and cuddly
Monkeys furry and funny
Large strong men choosing the right one for
their children.
Big stoic men choosing the right one for
their grandchildren.
Tall tough men choosing the right one for
their girlfriends.
Hurting honest men choosing the right one for
themselves.
December 12, 2001
I could describe to you in detail the hundreds of faces I looked into
and the thousands of stories I heard. But a strange thing happened after
I got home that made me realized just how focused I was on the human
aspect of this tragedy. Karen Lilly, a fellow Red Cross volunteer with
whom I had shared most of these experiences in NY - we had gone down
and back on the train together, been paired together in Rockaway and
worked the same shift at Respite 1 for much of our time there, gave
me a picture she had taken on a recent trip to NYC. I looked at the
picture blankly. My ignorance obviously showed because Karen told me
with some amazement that it was the building we knew as Respite 1. I
had no idea - despite entering and exiting that building hundreds of
times I had never once actually looked at it - to me it was just the
structure that housed grief and sorrow and comfort and hope.
Part of our job at Respite 1 was to go out among the rescue workers,
construction workers, police officers and military personnel guarding
the perimeter or searching the rubble of ground zero. We were there
to offer food and drink and comfort and conversation to those who could
not or would not take breaks and come in to Respite 1. There we were
among the rubble, near the hole in the earth that once was the foundation
for the twin towers, surrounded by half standing buildings being carefully
brought down. Within a block or two you could see a restaurant with
tables still set for the lunch time crowd, the only thing out of place
the thick layer of dust and grime covering the dishes and cups. Everywhere
you looked you saw some things seemingly undisturbed and others totally
destroyed. Witnessing the arbitrary nature of destruction left me particularly
unsettled. Yet, in the midst of this we were there to make a difference.
The following poem I wrote entitled "the Best We Can Offer"
describes this aspect of our work.
The Best We Can Offer
Saline to soothe the eyes
Red and tired from dusty air.
Lip balm to ease sore lips
Raw and cracked from wind and sun.
Chewing gum to moisten the mouth
Dry and gritty from breathing ashes.
Throat lozenges to soothe the throat
Sore and scratchy from swallowing soot.
Peanut butter cups to ease the hunger
Hollow and gnawing from too few breaks.
Steaming coffee to moisten the palate
Aching for it to taste as it once did.
Gentle words to soothe the soul
Battered by the horror of September 11th.
Kind words to ease the pain
Stabbing and aching over the losses of September 11th.
Caring words to moisten the cheeks
Finally able to cry after September 11th. December 12, 2001
Because of the timing of my trip, I was in NY over Thanksgiving. We
had the option of having Thanksgiving off but I decided that if I couldn't
be home with Donna and James then I'd rather work. I did my regular
shift plus an extra hour and a half, enabling someone with family in
the area to delay coming in until 6 pm. To be honest, at the time, I
wanted nothing more than to go back to the hotel and be by myself. That
did not seem to be an option however. You see, two friends from First
Parish, Sherene and Sheila were in NYC visiting their friend Leah and
her sister. Upon learning I was there with the Red Cross, Leah and her
sister had immediately invited me to come over for Thanksgiving dinner.
In fact, during one conversation, I was ordered to come or they'd come
and find me. Despite the fact that I had only met Leah once and did
not know her sister at all, the invitation was clearly genuine and from
the heart, so I went. Leah was one of those people you may have heard
about - supposed to be at the World Trade Center on September 11 but
a quirk of fate kept her away - my knowing that and her knowing that
I had been working there for the past ten days made our being together
emotional and somewhat uncomfortable. By silent mutual consent we did
not really talk about September 11th and in fact at times found making
eye contact difficult. Neither of us wanted the memories that each of
us reminded the other of intruding on this sacred time. But the food
was good, the intentions were wonderful and with Leah's sister, and
Sherene and Sheila as safe buffers between Leah, and me the company
was relaxing. This day of family and close friends, giving thanks and
counting blessings felt very different to me - after spending it in
the home of an acquaintance and her sister, I left feeling more blessed
then I thought I had the right to feel and more importantly I left feeling
able to go back to Ground Zero one more day - something I had been unsure
of earlier in the evening.
The Sunday after Thanksgiving was my one and only day off. I was scheduled
to leave on Tuesday although we had been asked to extend our time and
I was considering it. I woke up on Sunday as if my alarm had been set
for 6 am. Finding myself wide awake, (amazing for a night person like
me) I got up and decided to write. The following poem flowed from my
pen.
Two Months and Two weeks Later
Two months and two weeks later
Too much sorrow to put into words.
Two months and two weeks later
Two firefighters working side by side to bring their brothers home.
Two police officers at every gate protecting the crime scene called
ground zero.
Two months and two weeks later
Too pungent is the smell to tolerate for long.
Too thick and gritty is the air to breathe unfiltered.
Two months and two weeks later
Too many buildings still to bring down.
Too much rubble left to be searched.
Two months and two weeks later
Too eerie for words are the sounds of recovery.
Too few loved ones being reunited.
Two months and two weeks later
Too many losses still to be mourned.
Too much suffering still being endured.
Two months and two weeks later
Too much talk of revenge to let the healing begin.
November 25, 2001
After writing that I felt a bit down so I decided to have a typical
Sunday morning and looked in the phone book for a UU church. I found
three options and having heard of All Souls, I decided to venture towards
Central Park and check out the service there. I have no idea if it was
because of the holiday weekend or if it is always like that but the
sanctuary was packed. There were chairs set up in the aisles and even
most of those were filled. I found a seat ¾ of the way back in
an outside aisle and sat down to be spiritually moved. What I was instead
was moved to tears. By nothing in particular or by everything, I'm not
sure which. I later realized that this was really the first time I let
my guard down and let my mind wander at all - and what bubbled to the
surface was all the sorrow and grief I had been absorbing for ten days.
So, I sat in the outer aisle and just cried through the whole service
- what the heck, I'd never see any of these people again. For no reason
other than all that crying left me feeling drained and dry, I decided
to check out coffee hour and grab a quick cup of tea before heading
back to the hotel for a fun day of doing laundry and watching football.
Now, I knew that Sherrie Cline's parent's Les and Sylvia had a place
in NYC and I knew that they were UUs. But I never connected any of that
with the possibility that I'd see them in the midst of scores of people
at All Souls on that Sunday in November. But that is exactly what happened.
Across the Parish Hall, I spotted two familiar, friendly faces. Their
invitation to have a "normal" Sunday afternoon with them gave
me such a lift I can't to this day describe how it made me feel. First
a walk through central park, then pizza and beer at a favorite local
place, playing with their cats back at their condo, it was perfect -
well almost - the only thing missing was a dog. Seriously though, that
Sunday afternoon did more for my spirit and my soul then hours of therapy
could have accomplished.
My last couple of days at Respite 1 went by quickly and I decided it
was not possible physically, emotionally or spiritually for me to extend
my time there. The impact those 14 days had on my body was significant.
I developed a nagging cough within two days of being at Ground Zero
and my eyes were constantly irritated and sore. Although I was sleeping
more hours than I had in years, it was more like being drugged than
relaxing and it was getting harder and harder to get up every morning.
In my free time every evening I was walking miles but instead of feeling
energized by the exercise I was getting increasingly restless. Emotionally,
I was wound tight as a spring. Despite calling home every night and
sometimes twice a day, I had been unable to really share my experiences
or feelings with Donna. So much was going on that I was afraid to let
any of it out. I had buried my feelings so deep that to go there, to
share anything with her, felt dangerous and totally impossible.
Spiritually I bounced between despair and hopefulness. Never had I
experienced such sorrow and grief coupled with such optimism and generosity
of spirit. It was overwhelming. From my first day in Rockaway I understood
that all of us there, supposedly there to help, were feeling similarly.
As we took in other people's sorrow and grief, anger and hopelessness,
from the mental health workers to the clergy we were all having difficulty
ridding ourselves of these same feelings. This made it hard if not impossible
to help each other regain the perspective we needed to go back day after
day.
I remember one minister in particular who went with two family members
and me to the morgue to try and identify the remains found early one
day at Ground Zero. As we were returning to Respite 1 after the three
longest hours of my life, I was thinking how grateful I was that she
had been along. Although I was comfortable talking with the young child
that had come with her father about her mommy's job as a police officer
and the sadness that she had died, I was totally at a loss as to what
to say to this Irish Catholic husband about why this tragedy had left
his young daughter motherless. Before I had a chance to say any of that
out loud, the minister thanked me for being there. She said that she
felt drained of all words of comfort. She told me that she had no idea
how to answer her own questions about how a loving God could have let
this happen let alone adequately speak to someone who had lost so much.
Clearly, we had done as much for each other's spirits as we hopefully
had for those we were actually there to help.
Humor of course did help all of us on the Disaster Mental Health Team
get through this experience. Irreverent humor, that to many would seem
tasteless, eased the suffering for at least a little while. There was
one story in particular that makes me chuckle even to this day when
I think about it. As you know, Ground Zero was considered a crime scene
for most of the past several months. One thing that was drilled into
us was that if we dropped anything while walking around inside the perimeter
of Ground Zero, we could not pick it up. To bend down and pick something
up could be seen as trying to remove evidence from the scene of a crime.
If there was a police officer nearby, you could let him know what you
dropped and he might pick it up for you - but basically anything on
the ground stayed there until retrieved by an investigator.
Well, one night two of my colleagues, Ross and Ellen, who worked Respite
1 on the over night shift were out walking with boxes of gum, candy
and the like. Ross, a big burly kind of guy was walking along in the
dark when he tripped. He valiantly tried to keep everything from falling
from the box, but in doing so he ended up flat on his stomach on the
ground. The way he and Ellen described the next few seconds had our
team in stitches. Ross claims that he was waiting for the FBI to start
shooting thinking he was trying to tamper with a crime scene. Ellen
told us that she wasn't sure if not picking up anything that fell applied
to people and wondered if she needed to leave Ross lying there until
she could get permission to help him up. Fortunately, Ross was not hurt
and it gave all of us something real to laugh at in this surreal place
called Ground Zero.
I wrote the following poem in an attempt to sum up my experience at
Ground Zero.
For This I Got My Masters Degree
They called me the zoo lady
Small fuzzy kittens and puppies in my pockets
Teddy Bears and monkeys in my arms
Smiling when I approached with stuffed animals
Choosing one for their son or daughter
For this I got my masters degree.
They called me a lifesaver
Bottles of water, cups of coffee in my cart
Packs of gum, Chap Stick and chocolate in the box
Accepting comfort food and liquid
Taking just one more peanut butter cup for later
For this I got my masters degree.
They called me a comedian
A joke or pun quick on my lips
A retort or playful insult in response to theirs
Willing to converse about my accent or the Red Sox
Commenting on the cold or the rain or the heat or the sun
For this I got my masters degree.
They called me the Red Cross fashion plate
Absurdly large vest - gray, white and red
Hard hat that never fit quite right
Mask and goggles sometimes worn
Making fun of gear that signified so much more
For this I got my masters degree.
They called me helpful
Never really making eye contact
Talking in softer voices then ever crossed their lips before
Shedding tears quickly wiped away
Letting it out, letting me in
For this I got my masters degree.
January 12, 2001
I'm not really sure how to end this talk. It will have to suffice to
say that my experience in NYC was really about both giving and receiving.
I truly feel honored and blessed that I was able to take sorrow from
others so that they could feel hope. The ability of those brave people
in NYC to let me in, to let their emotions out and to let their destructive
feeling go, was absolutely astonishing. I learned once again of the
power of being present, of bearing witness. I was reminded once again
about the profound benefit to both the giver and the receiver, the benefit
to the comforter as well as the comforted. And I realized once again
that it doesn't take heroic actions - it takes the little things, day
to day things, like sharing a meal, a walk on Sunday afternoon, sharing
simple joys with others, things we can do every day. That is what it
takes to make a difference, to comfort a grieving heart, to mend a broken
spirit. Let it be so.
CLOSING WORDS
Several weeks after returning from NYC I received this magnet from
four fire fighters that I spent a lot of time with - it reads:
When you come to the edge of all the light you have,
and must take a step into the darkness of the unknown,
either there will be something solid for you to stand on, or you will
fly.
The note the fire fighters sent with the magnet said in part: "Thank
you for being solid while teaching us to fly."
My closing words were inspired by the words in this note and on this
magnet.
They Never Told Me
They never told me
And I should not have needed to be told.
I was solid.
I sustained them.
I helped them learn to fly.
I mattered.
I made a difference.
They never told me
Until they did.
And it helped me heal.
February 8, 2002
