Start Reading
Copyright © 2006, 2011 by Leslie Haskin
The material in this book is adapted from Between Heaven and Ground Zero by Leslie Haskin
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7068-9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
Unless otherwise identified, Scripture quotations are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com
Scripture quotations identified NKJV are from the New King James Version of the Bible. Copyright © 1979, 1980, 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Scripture quotations identified KJV are from the King James Version of the Bible.
Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of individuals.
Cover design by Dan Pitts
TO FIREFIGHTERS
AND POLICE OFFICERS
EVERYWHERE . . .
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
A Note to the Reader
Introduction
PART ONE: In the Beginning
Chapter 1: Eight Million Stories
Chapter 2: September 11
Chapter 3: Tower One
Chapter 4: . . . and the Super Ego
Chapter 5: Strike One
Chapter 6: Step-by-Step
PART TWO: The Enemy of My Enemy
Chapter 7: Strike Two
Chapter 8: Exit Center
Chapter 9: War Zone
Chapter 10: The Birth of Inspiration
Chapter 11: Goliath Falls
Chapter 12: It Is Finished
Chapter 13: Going Home
About the Author
Timeline of September 11, 2001
Back Cover
A Note to the Reader
The story of September 11, 2001, is very complex. It involves seven massive buildings, thousands of people, psychological, emotional, and physical distress, and possibly twenty thousand personal accounts of that day.
This is just one of them.
I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder.
Post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD, is a psychiatric disorder that can come about after one has experienced or witnessed life-threatening events like war, natural disasters, terrorist incidents, or violent personal assaults.
There are many symptoms to this disorder. Most of mine involved the psycho-physiological changes associated with PTSD like hyper-arousal of the sympathetic nervous system, flashbacks, increased sensitivity of the startle reflex, memory loss, and sleep abnormalities. There were others, but these affected me most.
Exposure therapy and drug treatments are most common. My treatments involved medication and a very aggressive treatment called eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR), which involves having the patient repeatedly relive the experience under controlled conditions to help work through the trauma.
I assure you that it is extremely difficult to take.
Along with treatment, and to help me first remember and then process what I remembered, I began keeping a journal. These pages represent what I recorded in my journal. By no means is it intended to represent the complete story or historical data. There are still many facts missing—pieces that I might never have to connect the dots—but this is what I remember and what I feel. I hope it brings something valuable to your life.
Continue in God’s grace. . . .
Leslie
Introduction
It begins.
On the clear and sunny morning of Tuesday, September 11, 2001, terrorists murdered more than twenty-seven hundred people in an attack on New York City.
Thousands died when at the height of the morning rush, an American Airlines-piloted missile slammed into Tower One of the World Trade Center.
It was first blood.
President Bush vowed that terrorism “will not stand,” “God Bless America” was quickly reinstated as our song, American flags decorated our porches, and thousands of American households finally fell asleep each night to the white noise of TV Land and I Love Lucy.
Life changed for all of America in a matter of a few grave moments between a deviant cockpit and the ninety-fifth floor.
I have lived and relived those moments at least a million times. A million times lost and searching for words to describe what happened on the inside—the torment and vulnerability, the confusion, the carnage, and the sheer visceral terror of it all. I struggle still in my description of witnessing the heart of humanity colliding with gravity and of dreams of the slaughtered Twin Towers covered in dust and blood while a somber last breath cries for justice.
Nothing in my life prepared me for what I lived through, and I will never forget . . . those stairs . . . the smells . . . those sounds . . . the faces of the people.
My soul yet sings its solemn song, and the severity of that day pours through these pages like a stream . . . so brace yourself.
Every one of us who lived that day has a story to tell about that day, where the terror began and when the nightmare ended.
This is my story, not intended to be a political statement or a means to achieve any bit of self-promotion, false enlightenment, or self-interest. My objective here is to be a gentle light to a world I view as searching.
My hope in this is to speak to all those left with questions and those still mourning—that your faith might be restored. My prayer is that through your grief, anger, consternation, confusion, or resolve, the Lord opens the eyes of your heart so that you will see the hope of His calling. For it is in the midst of uncertainty that the sound of His voice and the silence that follows quiets your inhibitions, and you receive comfort and then clarity, deliverance, and then closure.
Amen.
PART ONE
In the Beginning
Chapter 1
Eight Million Stories
One Song
It doesn’t matter what brings us to that place, only that we get there and what we leave owning.
—AUTHOR UNKNOWN
February 20, 2005
1:30 p.m.
It was cold outside. The earth gave off gray nuances and the sun’s rays teased the sky. I love the way it looks when God’s breath meets with mine in the open air—something so big joining with something so small to create a vapor so eternal. It reminds me that life is the only idea of something I can touch. It moves me beyond words—at least now it does.
I got off the PATH train at the place where it all began. The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Nothing happened in particular . . . not really. Except that when my brain registered the location of my body and my foot hit the platform, forty-two months of spirits and fear, and anger, and hope and pain and surrender, and guilt, and confusion and resolve, and confrontation and nightmares, and every prayer that ever was prayed for me collided in my world. They landed square on my shoulders, collapsed me at the knees, and delivered
me to 8:46 a.m. on Tuesday, September 11, 2001. I smelled it all . . . all over again, and I wanted to puke.
I looked around. It was all so familiar and yet nothing was as I remembered. I could place every building and every person exactly as they last were. For four hours I walked around that enormous, conflicting tomb, begging the cosmos to infuse me with some answers that made even a tiny bit of sense. I watched the mounds of dirt breathe, half expecting them to give birth to two towers . . . as if Rome was built in a day.
Crowds of people gathered around that empty lot. Correction, hundreds gawked at an empty tomb. Wait a minute, at a place like this there are no “mere” people. There are artists creating, writing rhymes, making music and song. There are no individuals, just stories. They say eight million of them compose this naked city. Mine is now a song that bellows and respires in the air, is unintelligible in dreams, and somehow gains vibrato in the open catacombs of Tower One of the World Trade Center.
For this is where I died . . .
This is where I was I born.
This song is the one that I was created to sing.
. . . it took me forever to get
here.
Chapter 2
September 11
Perfect in Beauty
The Mighty One, God, the Lord, speaks and summons the earth from the rising of the sun to the place where it sets. From Zion, perfect in beauty, God shines forth.
—PSALM 50:1–2
September 11, 2001
5:15 a.m.
It was more than a beautiful morning. The sun was already beginning to show her face over the mountains near my home and the sky was a brilliant blue. The kind of blue you see in island waters that once glanced, imprints itself a lasting image. Birds were singing and the wind was calm and gentle with the scent of fresh flowers and cleanly cut grass. The air was stimulating. Everything was alive! It was the kind of day that inspired being in love and the appreciation of love. It was a day that brought beauty to perfection.
I wanted to skip going to the office that day. I wanted to play hooky and relax in my garden or take a long drive through the mountains to enjoy God’s wonder. But duty called.
My days often began early and ended late. It only bothered me on days like these. I would have much preferred sneakers, jeans, and a T-shirt to the Barami suit and one-inch designer pumps I was wearing. It would have pleased me immensely to pack a picnic basket. Instead, I was stuffing my laptop into its ugly black bag and readying myself for the office. The hour was getting late so I got dressed and reluctantly drove to the train station.
6:20 a.m.
Train 1
The station was only seventeen minutes from my home. The views of the mountains between here and there are spectacular. The trees are like picture-perfect heads of broccoli seated at the foot of heaven. The blue sky provides a magnificent canvas.
Usually I enjoyed the drive—sixty-five miles per hour in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone along a country road. Usually it was invigorating. Usually jazz radio provided the ambience for my early-morning escape. This morning, however, there were better things to do than take that particular drive and go into the city. Hence, it was a punishment and it seemed to take forever.
Commuting was like work in itself and nothing to look forward to; at best, it could be taxing. I lived about two hours from my office and had to take two trains to get there. Both trains demanded skill and good timing to ride successfully, and after eight years of practice, my timing was still not the best. I pulled into the station just as the train arrived.
Every morning it screeched into my station almost empty. By the second stop, it filled with a cast of colorful characters.
Jack, the conductor, knew all of the everyday riders by name. He was a friendly thirty-five-year-plus railroad veteran whom most thought to be a workaholic. He worked two jobs, ran his own limousine company, never took a sick day, and worked half of his vacation time. Kudos to Jack, because at nearly seventy, his energy was inspiring.
The ride into the city was always uneventful; there was never anything new. We had only to look forward to the same worn leather seats, the same smell of newspaper, and the same cliques of riders. The more popular ones sat in the middle of the train car every day so as not to miss anything. They were the ones in the know. They were the ones who started and ran the rumor mill, laughed the loudest, and tried desperately to create a commuter vibe. They were the ones who, between my naps, kept me amused.
I remember three of them very well. Jan was a young, impressionable legal assistant who likely believed that the louder she talked the more probable it was that she was right. She was a tall, slender woman with dark hair. Most of the men smiled when she sat near them.
Lorna was another commuter. A financial advisor and my favorite to watch, this beautiful plus-sized woman wore her makeup and hair flawlessly styled. Judging from all the advice she gave, she was gold at heart. Her laugh was contagious.
Finally, there was Paul. He stood about five-foot-seven, one hundred fifty pounds—a reasonably attractive “professional commuter.” No one really knew exactly what he did for a living, but every morning he boarded the train and announced his arrival by greeting every woman within earshot with a smile and a copy of his pay stub—not really, but when all else fails . . .
There were others, of course, but none quite as entertaining or that I enjoyed more. These few invested a lot in surviving the everyday madness of commuter travel. I respected their determination to take it all in stride.
I like to think that somehow I remained outside the “center stage” of the commuter regulars—safely set apart and just watching. On occasion, though, I might have been in the middle of it all.
I am a peculiar sort. Unlike many others, my personality does not match my chosen career. They are, in fact, literal opposites that nonetheless complement the two very strong aspects of my “self.”
On the one hand, I am a thinker and quite cerebral. I am an evaluator with a very low tolerance for anything destructive, especially people. I am candid, introspective, and quite often misunderstood. In other words, I can be opinionated. On the other hand, I am an easygoing, lively risk-taker who loves life and appreciates most things that give me a challenge. I love laughter and walking in the mountains. I am strong, grounded, and I fear nothing . . . well, maybe birds. I have struggled with asthma since childhood but at every opportunity will defy even that. I am a fighter. I stand about five feet tall with a somewhat athletic build. I have big eyes, a broad face, and when I am awake, I am usually smiling.
I enjoy quiet time. So for me, commuting time, unlike the core group, was nap time. I always sat alone and spread out over the large Amtrak-ish seats, rested my head on the very cold, hard window, and snored.
This was my routine, my crew, and my mornings. It was my life every Monday through Friday of every week in every month of every year. I was a commuter, like it or not.
7:58 a.m.
Train 2
When I arrived at the Hoboken train terminal, people were already racing for the next PATH train. The “PATH,” the second and final train in my long haul into the city, connects New Jersey transit lines to the New York City subway system. It went directly into the subfloors of the World Trade Center. Our office was on the thirty-fifth and thirty-sixth floors of the north tower, known as Tower One.
Anxious commuters check their watches every two minutes and pack the platform in wait. As bizarre as it is, they stand close to the platform’s edge and lean in to be the first to spot a train that screams when it arrives. They rush forward at first sight, then back away from the tracks as the train pulls in.
New York trains are infamous for “pushers.” Most people push to get on and get a seat, and then push their way off to be first on the escalators. I always felt it best to stand near a door and let the surge take me both ways.
Riding this rail is an adventure, to put it mildly. It is always crowded, late, and smelly. The floors are sometimes sticky an
d littered with “God only knows what.” It is best compared to New York City itself . . . in motion . . . somewhat difficult to describe. It is the perfect contradiction: It is glamorous and degenerate, cultured and crude, beautiful and detestable, ethical and decadent, exciting and scary all at the same time.
The PATH, like downtown Manhattan Island, is a stage for the homeless. They find their audience here and perform through their hunger. In watching, I am both confused and bothered by their signs. And the Negro spirituals that flow from the mouths of these dirty-blond men embarrass me.
That morning the train filled as always. I squeezed on just before the door closed. The person on my right gave me a dirty look as the not so very gentle man on my left gave me a shove. I assumed their disapproval but ignored them both. It was a short ride, not worth the fight, just fifteen minutes tops to the World Trade Center, the train’s last stop and our liberation.
Chapter 3
Tower One
The “It,” the Ego . . .
Their land is full of silver and gold; there is no end to their treasures. Their land is full of horses; there is no end to their chariots. Their land is full of idols; they bow down to the work of their hands, to what their fingers have made.
Escape from the World Trade Center Page 1
