This blog was born out of a Magnetic Poetry experiment. I’ve always had a talent for jigsaw puzzle completion, and find similar enjoyment taking those miniature literary magnets and turning them into verse. The activity makes for a great three-dimensional, wordsmithing playground when you’re a restless writer with a kinesthetic learning style!
Anyway, one day I was thinking about the miraculous beauty and power of the spring season. It literally and figuratively brings new life. Even the most persistent winter eventually yields to the relentless, resurrecting work of spring. That which was dead quickens once again, releasing an intensely refreshing fragrance no man-made perfume can match.
Having experienced
long and harsh winters in several areas of life, the concept of spring and the
hope it represents lingered in my mind. The result was this poem, which has
remained on the fridge ever since:
As I write and share, my goal is to always point to that overarching message of hope: No matter how long, cold or dark … after every winter comes a spring.
The words escaped me in a whisper as I walked with my mother and sister toward Ground Zero. Dozens of people walked with us, heading south on Church Street in quiet pilgrimage.
We moved more and more slowly as we neared the site of the September 11 attack on New York. Still two full city blocks away, I could see a gaping hole where two magnificent towers once stood—the pride of the New York skyline. Where once the streamlined steel structures had filled lower Manhattan’s vertical horizon, I could see blue sky.
And even after three months of waiting to go home for Christmas, agonizing over the tragedies on the East Coast, taking in one heart-wrenching media report after another, my eyes refused to accept what they saw. My brain refused to compute it—even now. Even though my United flight had followed the skyline straight into Newark Airport, my eyes strained to see something that no longer existed physically.
For me, and for thousands of others, the Twin Towers still exist emotionally.
New York was my backyard for 18 years. I grew up in northern New Jersey, within 30 miles of the city that never sleeps. And I grew up with that skyline: the Twin Towers were completed less than two years after my birth.
I’ve always enjoyed trips to the city. In that part of the country, when you say “the city” it’s understood that the only city you’re talking about is New York. It’s the city in the Tri-State area—a metropolitan melting pot. It’s big. Boisterous. Sassy. Sophisticated. Cultured. Crass. Full of drivers quick to offer one-finger salutes. And, of course, way too many Italians for its own good. (I can say that. My mom’s side of the clan boasts 100-percent, fresh-off-the-boat Marino blood.)
As far as my family was concerned, when out-of-state friends came to visit, if you did nothing else, you would drive them into the city, buy them a pretzel, and take them to the top of the World Trade Center. And on the way home that evening, you would make sure to give them a good look at that beautiful New York skyline.
Until September.
Until September, part of me thought the World Trade Center was just another set of buildings. Impressive, amazing buildings—but still your basic modern landmark.
I realize now the Towers were much more than that to me. They were part of my home, part of my heritage. Part of who I am—a Jersey girl who transplanted herself to the western United States, but is still proud to be a Jersey girl (that’s “JOYZEE” to you!). And though I would never call myself a city girl, I love New York.
Now this great city stood wounded. And its people were wounded, and I felt helpless that bright September day.
I prayed. And waited. And asked for a chance to reach out to just one New Yorker, in person, at Christmastime.
We turned and walked west on Chambers, following a wall of plywood that had been raised to block off the work area at Ground Zero. The wall was covered with inscriptions from people all over the state, all over the country, offering condolences, prayers, blessings. I stepped up and wrote my own brief note, running my pen’s ballpoint tip across the grain numerous times to ensure the message was legible: “You’re in my thoughts and prayers …”
At the end of the road stood a major entrance to Ground Zero, facing the waters of the Hudson. People crowded the area, straining to see the aftermath of September 11. When smaller construction vehicles came and went, a gate was opened. And each time, for a few brief moments, we could see into the heart of what had been described as “hell” just three months before.
So much debris had been cleared the area resembled a construction site. Except all of the surrounding buildings—the ones that hadn’t been obliterated—were ripped open, as if a massive, clawed hand had lacerated them. Giant sheets of plastic draped over them, protecting them from the elements. Directly across from us, a huge American flag hung from one of the buildings. I tried to comprehend the fact that I was looking at a mass grave, that hundreds of people still lay buried beneath the remaining tons of twisted steel.
I couldn’t.
To our right, a long section of chain-link fence served as a memorial wall. Posters, flowers, cards and flags covered it. My mother and sister and I each brought an offering of flowers. I found an empty space in the fence and gently pushed my daisy bouquet into it. I knelt down and prayed. I thought I would cry at this moment.
I couldn’t.
We walked back up Chambers to Broadway, slowly circling the perimeter of Ground Zero. Stopping, looking, listening. We paused at St. Paul’s Chapel of Trinity Church, a pre-Revolutionary War building that had survived the attacks and had been transformed into a place of rest for weary Ground Zero workers. Another fence, covered with personal sentiments, blocked off entrances to Ground Zero on either side of the church.
Then I saw them. Two firefighters, New York’s Bravest, walking away from the wreckage, their footsteps heavy and slow. They emerged from behind a row of blue NYPD sawhorses, coming directly toward us.
One of the men moved past me. Feeling like a little girl, I tugged at the left sleeve of his heavy jacket. He stopped as I tried to collect my thoughts. So much was in my heart: “You guys are incredible—I’m so proud of you—I’ve never been so proud to be an American…” I wanted to start singing the National Anthem.
Instead, I simply said, “Thank you for your work.”
He paused again, seeming startled. Graciously he replied, “Thank you for saying so. Thanks for supporting us.” Then he walked on, pressing through the crowds of well-wishers who had come to pay their respects.
We, too, moved on, wanting to continue absorbing all we could. We saw the bike that remained locked to a street sign, left unclaimed by a courier who perished in the attacks. We saw a long flatbed truck hauling a pile of blackened steel out of the area, with six more flatbeds waiting to enter. We saw a police officer, one of New York’s Finest, skillfully handling herds of people with pleasant authority and a classic New York accent. I told him he was doing a great job and thanked him, and he, like the fireman, returned a surprised word of thanks.
They were just doing their jobs.
The last part of the pilgrimage was the most difficult. On the west side of Ground Zero was an entrance to a private viewing platform for family members of the Trade Center victims. Two and three at a time they silently walked up to the platform, away from the masses, to see where their loved ones had died. A strange odor wafted through the air at times: the smell of death.
We walked back to the beginning of our journey without saying much. But the next day, as my plane rose into the air and I saw the ravaged skyline one last time, my throat tightened. When I arrived in Denver, the tears finally came—and the words.
No one ever dreamed that, when the visionaries of the 1960s built those towers a piece at a time, just 27 years later others would remove them in the same fashion. No one ever guessed that this soaring symbol of peace and prosperity would become a fiery trap of terror and destruction.
Yet God’s goodness still shines through. Since September 11, we’ve seen humanity at its best defy humanity at its worst. We’ve heard miracles as survivors tell incredible stories, seen miracles as the actual death count falls far below initial estimates, felt miracles as our country’s interest in and expressed need for God increases.
Never forget the people. Never forget the call to prayer. As the flags are put away, and the “God Bless America” signs fade, as the months and years go by and life moves forward—never forget.
God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging.
