Chicken Soup for the Soul of America (12 page)

Suddenly a foreman approached me and said rather brusquely, “Put your hard hat on! This is a hard hat area!” I realized that I was wearing my cap and not the hard hat that still dangled from the back of my knapsack. I thanked him for the reminder and made the switch immediately. He was right, of course. There is still the danger of pieces of glass or stone façade falling from buildings that ring the WTC disaster site.

This morning I started my talk to the Salvation Army officers and cadets with a description of that encounter. And I suggested that ministry is, or ought to be, a “hard hat” job. We can't afford to let ourselves get sucked into the minutia of organizational life when a larger world beckons with all of its yearnings to hear a word of love and hope. But people who go out “there” better wear a hard hat of a kind because it's a lot more dangerous than life in religious territory. On the other hand, some may debate that.

I have always known that I preferred life “out there” rather than inside the religious world. Perhaps that's why, as Gail and I drove north, I felt a strong sense of melancholy coming over me, probably a kind of psychic and emotional withdrawal. After all, we have spent a week unlike any other week in our lives. Every moment was fraught with an intensity of experience that one can hardly describe to anyone who hasn't been there. At the site, no one seemed a stranger. But now, away from the site, all the old feelings and experiences of incivility begin to creep back.

Drivers on the interstate are posturing for position at the tollbooths; at the gas station the attendant doesn't even look at you when you try to engage him; and at the rest stop along the way, a young man lounges outside his car with his radio speakers turned up so loud that you can hear and feel his music pound on you fifty yards away. He doesn't care who is affected by his insensitivity.

Not so at the pit. There, everyone seems to connect. Tell the policeman who stands nearby that you need some ice, and fifteen minutes will not pass before a van drives up and a half dozen burly officers begin loading you up with more ice than you can use. And then, when you say “Thank you,” they say, “No, thank you for what you're doing.” Ask one of the “guerilla volunteers” if she's seen any Dr. Scholl's foot pads, and a case of them shows up rather mysteriously an hour later. From where? Ask any person who passes by how they're doing, and they'll talk to you as if you were lifelong friends.

I think life at this pit carries some hints of what combat veterans talk about when they reminisce, if you can get them to do it, about life under battle conditions. Stephen Ambrose was right: In such circumstances, we become a band of brothers (and sisters).

As we drive farther north into New England, we can see the first hints of fall coming on. There is relative cleanliness on the roads; there is greater order to the affairs of people; there is even the expectation of a hot bath when we arrive at home.

But somehow I prefer life at the pit. The pit is—if I dare to compare—a more real and more desirable place. It smells badly and its tumult pounds at you. But there is something awfully stimulating to the senses and to the soul at that place of human tragedy. And a part of me would rather be there wearing my hard hat and my Salvation Army chaplain jacket than be here.

I am reminded that missionaries often return home from hot spots where they have seen death, poverty, disease and great spiritual loss, and they often appear to be in shock and overly critical of the way they see Americans (American Christians) living. You can sense that they would like to say to many of us, “Get a life!” when they hear us talk about problems and needs that are really kind of petty when put in contrast to what they've seen. I suspect that Gail and I will struggle with that same kind of withdrawal for a while. Now I appreciate why many missionaries come to regard some Third World site as their real “home.” There is a quality of life out there on that edge that tugs at our souls and calls from us a better quality of person. We find that the gospel works better there, if you please; that it is designed to fit best in the suffering situation and is powerfully transforming. And if I may say it this way: when we go to such places and give away everything we have, we like ourselves better.

Life at the pit this past week renewed my sense of genuine manhood. I was pleased to feel bonded to real men and women who were bringing out the best in each other. I loved being in touch with their intensity, their sorrow, their determination to be faithful to their lost comrades. We were all swept up in a cause much bigger than us.

On the next-to-the-last day we were in the pit, I was walking (I forget to where) in the street among a spaghetti-like maze of fire hoses and utility lines. People were rushing back and forth all over the place. Suddenly a firefighter called out my name, “Hey, Gordon,” he yelled. Since my name is written in bold letters on the peak of my hard hat, I'm not difficult to spot. He came over to where I was and said, “Remember me? I'm Ken. You prayed for me the other day. I wanted you to know the prayer has been working. I'm okay!” As we embraced in that special manly way, my cheek brushed his, and I could feel the sweat and the grittiness of the dust and dirt on his skin. Perhaps at another time I might have recoiled from this. But not in this hour. I felt proud to share his smudges. I whispered a blessing into his ear as we stood there in the middle of the street, and then we parted.

Gordon MacDonald

Dear Mr. Cox

Dear Mr. Cox,

It has taken me too long to write you. I was delayed by my own fear that your son was lost at the World Trade Center and by the challenge of finding out the truth and then locating you. I hope I am right to believe that, as Fred's father, you would want to hear from me even as you endure his loss.

I am a writer who travels often on business. I met Fred in the last week of August on a flight from Los Angeles to New York with a stop in Las Vegas. We were both headed home, but he was intending to take a few hours in Vegas before catching a later flight to Kennedy.

For me, every flight is a chance to have a few precious hours of solitude, for reading, and just reflecting in a way that's almost impossible at home or work. I almost never engage in a long conversation with a seatmate. Instead, I use body language and a book to create some space between me and the other passengers in our tiny, shared space.

However, on this flight I got bumped to first class, where the comfortable surroundings made me more relaxed. My seat was in the last row, by the window. The young man who got up to let me sit down smiled warmly, offered to hand my coat to the flight attendant, and told me his name—Frederick.

In that short flight Fred told me how much he loved his work, especially travelling to meet with clients, and how his life seemed to be taking a shape that made him very happy. His choice to work at a smaller firm was an example. He believed it gave him a chance to learn much faster, and he was grateful for the opportunity. (He was also very proud that he had been accepted at the company even though he didn't have the advantage of a Wharton or Harvard degree.)

On the personal side, Fred said that despite his intentions, he had fallen in love with a young woman whom he admired deeply, and he was discovering that the values and lessons he had been taught as a child—be honest, care for others, listen to your heart—really worked in adult life. Fred possessed a rare combination of idealism, intelligence and innocence that was very appealing.

When I confessed to Fred that I am a writer, and that I have written a couple of books on golf, he began telling me about you, the times you had spent together on various courses, and how much it meant to him to share the game with you. When I mentioned I had been a caddy at Wentworth by the Sea in New Hampshire he told me, rather excitedly, that you had been a caddy as a boy and had worked in hotels in New Hampshire and elsewhere. “I just love caddies,” he said. “You guys really play the game for the right reasons, and appreciate it in ways the rest of us really don't.”

Fred told me how much he valued his relationship with you. He described how you had begun a search for the ideal place to live the next stage of your life. And he spoke of your sense of adventure with great love and admiration. It was clear to me that Fred was able to embrace life so vigorously because it flowed from you, and from his mother.

When we landed in Las Vegas, Fred said good-bye and I went looking for something to eat during the layover. But before I ate, I stopped at a phone and called my wife to tell her about this extraordinary young man who seemed to have his feet on the ground even as he let his heart soar.

After wandering the airport a bit, I boarded the plane to New York to discover that Fred was again in the cabin. He grinned, explained that his appointments had been canceled, and asked the person in the seat next to his to trade with me so we could resume our conversation.

On the flight to New York, Fred told me about his dream to convert his experience on Wall Street into a life of his own design. He talked about moving to a smaller town or city, opening a business—perhaps something in aviation—and devoting himself to both his own passions and his relationships with loved ones. What was most remarkable was Fred's commitment to real values—friendship, love, service to others—and his rejection of stark materialism and self-involvement. He said the most important thing he had learned on Wall Street was that money is a means, not an end, and that a single-minded obsession with work was almost suicidal.

I hope you will tell Fred's mother that he spoke at length to me about her as well. He talked about her teaching—he was genuinely awed by her ability to reach students—and about her unwavering love. At one point he reached for his computer, made a few clicks, and brought up a manuscript, complete with drawings, of a children's book she had written and illustrated. (It had something to do with nutrition and health.) He made it clear to me that like you, she had been a major source of the values that guided him. She had taught him to love, and he was deeply grateful for that.

When we landed, Fred and I exchanged business cards and e-mail addresses. (A first for me with a fellow traveler.) We agreed to meet for lunch, and to play golf with you on Long Island, where I live. A few days later an e-mail arrived. I answered, and we had begun to schedule our lunch. Though I am much older than Fred, I believed that I had met someone extraordinary, someone who would become a good friend. I knew that he was one of those rare people whose eyes were truly filled with light, whose heart was open, and whose mind was alert and ever at play.

I suspect that Fred affected everyone he met in the way that he affected me. Though he would likely have been the last one to say it, he was clearly a cut above the ordinary, a young man who gave freely of himself to others and approached life with a generosity and spirit that is exceedingly rare. You should know that he felt fully loved and supported by you and his mother. In turn, it was clear that he loved both of you very much. Indeed, I have never met a young man who seemed so certain about the gifts he had received, so happy with what he had, and so determined to share them with others.

Please accept my gratitude for your son and the time he shared with me. I am saddened by his loss, by the terrible fact that I won't have a long relationship with him. But I was blessed just to know he was in the world, and I hope you are warmed by knowing that he touched me very deeply.

Please share my thoughts with Fred's mom. And you can both feel free to contact me.

Sincerely,
Michael D'Antonio

Michael D'Antonio
Submitted by Tara Hitchcock and John Langbein

Dear Mike:

Thanks for your wonderful letter. As you know I have already faxed it to Annelise, his girlfriend, who has emailed you.

Your letter was one of the best communications that I have received since 9/11. I am sensitive to the time it took you to write your letter and I will treasure it for the rest of my life. For a complete stranger to take his valuable time and say the things you did has more meaning to me than you possibly can understand.

I look forward to meeting you.

Fred O. Cox

Fred O. Cox

Beep if You Love America

T
he wolf will live with the lamb, the leopard will lie down with the goat, the calf and the lion and the yearling together; and a little child will lead them.

Isaiah 11:6 NIV

We become a large town during the summers when our tourist population swells. But after Labor Day, we have a population of about five thousand in Bradley Beach, New Jersey. On this day, September 13, 2002, we stood in front of a World War I monument, in honor of those who perished and those who survived September 11, 2001. Members of the clergy spoke to the crowd and so did the mayor. We lit candles and cried together and shared stories about the day and how it affected us. Many had stories about friends, about family, who did not come home. Over and over, we heard the same refrain, “They just never came home that Tuesday.” There were children of all ages, holding candles and flags. They were listening.

Later, when the memorial service was over, the children left the park to stand on the corner, and we stood around aching to do something more. We hugged. We talked. We told each other it would get better. But there were no smiles and there was no laughter.

Suddenly, we noticed horns honking up and down Main Street, as if a parade was passing through town. As if there was a celebration.