Just one

The memorials are countless, to the fallen and those who heroically fought to save body and soul and serve any purpose they could in the terrible chaos of 9/11.

Here’s one from a young man who served that way then, and in a different but similar way now.

A raw memory…

As I entered the atrium of the building I saw scores of workers holding their hard hats over their chests. Fifty yards away a dozen firefighters proceeded slowly in my direction carrying a body bag. I removed my hard hat and stepped to the side. As they approached, I could read their red, swollen eyes. Their uniforms were dark with mud and soot. Raindrops dripped from everyone’s gear. A priest wearing a raincoat, a hard hat, goggles, a respirator, and a headlamp came forward with a book and oils. The men carrying their fallen friend cried quietly as the priest rolled back the bag and anointed the body, administering Last Rites. In the atrium, heads bowed and no one moved. I don’t remember how long we stood there, but time seemed to stop as profane space became as sacred as a shrine. Eventually, the priest stepped away, and the firemen walked slowly forward, out the doors and into the truck waiting outside. Without a word, we went back out into the dark rain to work.

Among the victims who died in the twin towers, one woman’s purse somehow survived intact, and her family has donated it to the Smithsonian. Her sister told a news person that their mother kept only one thing from that purse as a memory…. her sister’s rosary.

From all the horror, dignity and sanctity stand out. Like the cross at Ground Zero.