A priest remembers his day at Ground Zero on 9/11

As I entered the rectory, the secretary alerted me that a plane had just hit a World Trade Center building. As we watched the TV, a second plane hit the other World Trade Center building. I realized that what I had first thought was just an accident was a deliberate warlike action. 

I felt an immediate impulse to head down to the site, so I left a visiting priest to cover the hospital for emergencies. 

I stopped an ambulance that was also heading down to pick up the injured and we proceeded on a bumpy ride to the site. When I arrived, I joined Father Judge, the NY Fire Department’s chaplain, who graciously greeted me as he was speaking to two police officers.

People were jumping from the burning floors and I prayed for them as they came down. One was on fire as he fell. 

I walked down West Street, hoping to reach and assist the injured. I went under a trestle by the Winter Garden that linked it to Tower 1, and found a medical triage area, already abandoned. As I waited with a fireman, a section of the side of Tower 2 suddenly began to fall. It looked like a giant map of South America coming down, but about 20 stories tall and eight stories wide. The fireman turned to me and said, "Run for your life!" I followed him into the Winter Garden, saying to myself, “God are you going to take me now?" 

I was afraid that I was about to be crushed by the debris from the falling building. There was a loud low-pitched rumble, though not loud enough to prevent us from hearing each other. We ran into a huge, dark room — now pitch black, probably from the smoke that covered the building. The electric power was already out. 

I followed the firemen running ahead of me until we reached a corridor that led to Cedar Street. I still did not know that Tower 2 had actually collapsed and that about 300 fire fighters and police were killed and possibly Fr. Judge. 

I advanced in the direction of the Hudson River; everyone was on the run heading north. When I seemed to be at a safe distance from the burning building, I invited some people around me to pray for the dead, fearing that there had to be many, many dead — I knew some 60,000 people worked in the two buildings. 

I saw WTC1's antenna standing over the dark cloud of dust, but all of a sudden it started to descend straight down. I was in disbelief. I realized that what I thought were only the shingles of Tower 2 was actually the support for the whole building, which also went straight down as I was escaping into the Winter Garden. 

Police came over to me and told me to head north along the Hudson River to safety. But as soon as I could, I broke off from the crowd and headed back to the site to see if I could help the injured. 

I stopped quickly at a bar full of men watching the TV to ask for some water; the bartender handed me a little bottle. I quickly downed it and offered to pay; he just waved me off. 

As I again approached the site, I saw what looked like two piles of rubble — each about four stories tall. I quickly realized that it would be a miracle to find any survivors. 

I was called over to bless a body; it actually was an arm with its pointer finger extended, as if it was telling me to look toward another covered body a few feet away. I said the prayers for the dead. 

Later, walking back to my rectory across the street from the Staten Island Ferry, it was eerie to pass by the outdoor cafes without hearing the clanging of dishes. When I got to my room, I had a stiff drink of bourbon. The electric power was weak so the lights were dim, but I was able to turn on my TV and get a UHF station from New Jersey to see what was going on. I was relieved to hear that only about 3,000 people were unaccounted for. I had thought we had lost the entire financial community of 60,000. 

The next day I returned to the site. As I approached, things were very quiet and the surroundings looked like snow had fallen — it was all the dust from the buildings. Men were working to clear the streets with large construction vehicles. They had retrieved about 24 body parts and placed them in bags. As I prayed the blessing over them, I saw that one appeared to be the body of a young boy; his face was exposed. There was also the body of a woman and a fireman in uniform.

I walked to St. Peter’s Church to pray. There was no electric power but all the candles were lit. A woman — she might have been a nun — was there, earnestly praying alone.

I could see a small, dry pool of blood in front of the altar, with a purple stole lying nearby. Next to it was a saline infusion bag. It probably was from the body of Fr. Judge. 

I didn’t know what else to do; I went out and circled the site and at each clearing I would stop and say the prayers for the dead. 

I decided to visit the temporary morgues. As I approached one, I could see a pile of what I thought were bodies. As I got closer, I was relieved to see that it was a pile of mannequins that had been taken out of the Brooks Brothers store to make room for the dead. 

Several doctors gathered around me as I prayed over the dead bodies and body parts. I sprinkled the body bags with holy water and then left. 

I headed down to Cedar Street, amid the stench and the dust. I came upon a red pickup truck with the torso of a dead body dressed in dark blue. Near it was what looked like a cockpit jumper seat. I wondered if the body was a crew member or a terrorist. I blessed it all the same and moved on. 

As I walked to WTC 4, I could feel vibrations under my feet — I kept praying for the dead as I worried that something more was going to happen. That building did eventually collapse. 

I was not allowed to return to my residence by walking along the Hudson River because of the dangers of more buildings falling. I hitched a boat ride to get home. 

The hospital where I worked had only three patients from the attack. One died after several weeks in the ICU. 

What seemed like such a beautiful day turned out to be a day that only man could ruin.

~

I led a pilgrimage to Fatima that October and I could not help but think about the third secret recently revealed by Pope John Paul II. The secret was s sea of people walking through the ruins of buildings — much like what one would see in Gaza — but there were people climbing up a hill with a cross on top. One was dressed in white — a pope — and as he reached the top he was executed by soldiers. Certainly walking through the debris at 9/11 made me reflect on what we have the capability of doing, of our freedom to choose evil. And to choose good. 

On the first anniversary of 9/11, I was asked to lead a prayer for the medical students and coroners who helped to identify the bodies and body parts. It reflected much of the feelings that we New Yorkers felt when the city was struggling to get back to normal. 

~

Merciful God, we who have survived the attacks in lower Manhattan thank You for sparing our lives, but help us not to ruminate in our hearts the horrible memories of so many people dying so tragically. We who worked in despair, hoping to find the living, the fathers and mothers of children, sons and daughters of parents, husbands and wives of spouses and friends of friends, or only to return something in remembrance of most of them, thank You for letting us bring some consolation for most of the mourners, but now help us sort out our own distorted and repressed emotions. 

We who live in this great city, who mourn each time we try to take our bearings by looking to the sky for our two landmarks, or get a rush of fear when we see a low flying airliner racing over the city, thank You for letting us see blue skies and beautiful sunsets again, but give us courage as we live in fear of another attack. 

God of Justice, help us to neutralize the sinful forces that have destroyed so much talent and achievement in our world, but let not our desire for justice ever turn into hatred. May we seek the whys of this tragedy. Help us to put an end to ultimate acts of egoism and vengeance, which destroy the hopes and dreams of the young who are trapped in a world where they cannot be free. 

You have always shown us that peace is not just the absence of war. Help us to love our neighbors as ourselves. Help us to see that we are all made in Your image and likeness. We are weak and our need is great. Our very existence is now at stake by a perversion of our progress, making the world small and dangerous. 

God of Wisdom and Love, turn this tragedy here in New York City, in Washington, and in Shanksville, into a new beginning. 

Help us to undertake new and creative political, diplomatic, and economic initiatives, aimed at relieving the scandalous situations of gross injustice, oppression, and marginalization which continue to oppress countless members of the human family. Make us practitioners of true religion, which liberates, so that we can contribute to society the gifts that You have uniquely given each of us. 

Help us to think like You so that what we wish will always be for the common good. Grant us a deep knowledge of You so that we can become faithful seekers of Your truth – for to love You is nothing else but to love righteousness. You have always taught us that the hope of a better tomorrow lies only in the conversion of hearts and the spiritual renewal of society. May we take up the challenge of bringing a new world order of peace. Amen.