One minute I was in the stairs and the next was . . . oblivion. With heart pounding, lungs contracting, eyes expanded to the size of my face, and drenched in a cold sweat, for one terrible and seemingly endless second, I was sure—positive—that I was dying. Absolute fear. It was full-blown disorientation and a whirlwind of nauseating terror.
Lorna, one of my commuter “regulars,” worked in the World Financial Center directly across from the towers. She was at her desk and going about her morning as she normally would, when everything changed.
“I glanced up and out the window because I heard an explosion. I thought at first that a bomb had gone off somewhere. Then somebody said a plane had hit Tower One.
“I saw [the second] plane heading straight for my building. I froze. Then I screamed. I watched the airplane turn on its side and raise a few feet, change directions . . . almost a complete turn . . . then back to its side and straight into the side of the [tower]. There was fire and smoke everywhere. I fell to my knees, and all I could see was this huge hole in the side of the building with fire shooting out of it. I just knew we were next, so everybody started running and screaming. That’s when I saw the first body fall.”
Inside Tower One, the stairs shook more and flights collapsed. People slipped and stumbled. Linda fell into my back . . . heels first.
“What’s happening? What’s happening?” was the unison cry. Someone hollered up to us that the final exit door had slammed shut and was jammed. Something else was yelled. People cussed and then screamed and then . . . nothing. We just stood there, still and quiet for what seemed to be an eternity while every prisoner in that darkened and miserable staircase joined in immeasurable sorrow for what seemed to be our certain destiny.
Outside, the city held its breath in horror, staring into a black hole that was once a breathtaking landscape. Tower One stood strong, just smoking.
Inside, more jagged edges, more fires spread, more smoke made it harder to breathe. Explosions undoubtedly sealed more exits, trapped more people, and it became increasingly difficult to tell if we were still alive.
Just breathe, Leslie . . . just breathe.
It was just after nine, and Tower Two had been struck.
Silence washed over me. I felt weak.
Chapter 8
Exit Center
Angels in Our Midst
He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, “He is my refuge and my fortress; My God, in Him I will trust.” Surely He shall deliver you from the snare of the fowler and from the perilous pestilence.
—PSALM 91:1–3 nkjv
As a child, I was precocious and often called a free spirit. I was an active little girl with an honest zeal for life. Challenging rules came very naturally.
Frequently sick from asthma, I was supposed to live under certain limitations. Instead, I would climb trees or play football with the boys and then spend hours on my mother’s lap trying to breathe normally again. Although I couldn’t articulate it at the time, I understood the fragility of breath. I respected life and honored its Giver.
Even back then I was writing poems and having long conversations with the Lord. Before I really knew about the spiritual realm, I was having dreams and visions and was in touch with what we called “it.” Being spiritual was my norm . . . it was who I was.
In my early years, it was my mother who told me that God would do mighty things in my life one day. But it was God who assured me that He would always be with me. My parents said my connectedness was a gift—a divine experience and a powerful spiritual connection with my heavenly Father. As I grew older and wanted to fellowship outside the church, I felt more isolated, more resentful, and more like it was a curse. I wanted out—all the way out.
In retrospect, in that blocked stairwell I wished for some leverage or bargaining tool with God. And in spite of it all, I think I sensed that He was there with me. Still, I stood there yielded to doom and trapped on the brink of hell; once again, like that little girl I once was, feeling isolated, cursed, and wanting out—all the way out.
There was a small tremor. It lasted only a few seconds but I guess it caused the building to twist more because some doors that were previously open, slammed and jammed shut.
A man yelled that perhaps we should turn around and head back up to see if we could transfer to another stairwell.
You shall not be afraid of the terror by night, nor of the arrow that flies by day, nor of the pestilence that walks in darkness, nor of the destruction that lays waste at noonday. A thousand may fall at your side, and ten thousand at your right hand; but it shall not come near you. Only with your eyes shall you look, and see the reward of the wicked. (Psalm 91:5–8 nkjv)
Looking back, there were no words at that moment and still none now to describe that trancelike feeling of being “over.” None to relate that once-in-a-lifetime clarity of purpose and the realization that I had failed to fulfill mine. Trust me, there is nothing more miserable than the fear of dying and leaving so much undone and even more unspoken.
Not only was I full of repentance, I believe I reached a place where I understood that all the simple things we fight, scream, and complain about mean absolutely nothing. I was clear that all the “stuff” we work so hard to accumulate is temporary . . . of no real value. I got it. Life is a love story. I saw. I understood. It was clear. I was clear. That was how life “flashed” before my eyes, in clarity. It was a long pause of lucidity.
And then . . . then I gave up. I think we all did.
Suddenly and as unexpectedly as the exit door had closed and jammed, it opened and light trickled in. People pushed a little harder. This time the slightly anxious push became a frenzied shove toward the light. At last we had reached the lobby.
Water was everywhere. My eyes fixated on it as I tried to make out its discoloration. It was slightly red and deep. It was sluggish and did not flow willingly. The sharp odor of fuel emanated from it and took me back to the dripping I had heard earlier. This was it. This was where the water, fuel, and what appeared to be blood had found a place to collect our lives before completely draining us. We were ankle deep and plodding through it. My toes curled and tried to find a place in my shoes that was not touched by that dreadful puddle. Some women removed their shoes completely.
Now go, lead the people to the place I spoke of, and my angel will go before you. (Exodus 32:34)
A somewhat tall man with a quiet smile held the exit door open and directed evacuees to the next and final exit. He looked serene. An aura, as I know it now, was around him. At the time, I had few thoughts about him except that he felt safe and that I wanted to be where he was.
I paused near him, leaned by the door, and watched as he directed others from the stairs. I wanted to stay there with him. His presence was comforting. He looked at me and smiled. He spoke to me very clearly. He told me to move on . . . that I couldn’t stay there and that I would be okay. I believed him. His was the only smile I saw all day, and in that smile was the one place I saw faith.
It was perfect. It was reassuring. It was celestial.
Reluctantly, I moved on. I believe I exited the stairs at the plaza level but barely recognized it. No more was the concourse aglow with life. There were no sounds of hurried feet, rustling newspapers, or laughter and morning gibberish. Its voice now was the crackle of fire and random explosions. From every angle, it was crushed and dying, slightly grayed from smoke, defeated, crumbling, and slaughtered by glass bullets of injustice. Death absolutely reigned.
The smell was overpowering, and my lungs struggled frantically to blow out the stench of it. Then finally, hopeless and lost, I lifted my eyes to the only place I knew where I could find peace. Hear my cry, O God, attend unto my prayer.
I looked below me. Where had all the people gone? The officials who stood proudly every morning at the security stations had deserted them. Where were the masses that crowded the stairs? Other than those now pushin
g past me, the area was deserted and devoid of life.
I heard sirens coming from outside but saw no arriving knights in shining armor; at least not where I stood. There was some activity coming from the southern end of the building near the elevator banks. My eyes and subsequently my body followed the movement. I never really “saw” what was going on because my eyes stopped short of motion and focused on a very large glowing red object just outside the building. It lay near where the sculpture was supposed to be.
I stood near a railing and watched it glow, completely engrossed by the flames. There was something so frightening and magnificent about it that I couldn’t pull myself away. Whatever it was, it affected me. I just stood there with my heart beating out of my chest, afraid to breathe in more of death’s stench . . . or breathe out, as it might have been my last. My hands sweat and my knees buckled. I took a deep breath.
A woman stood beside me biting her arms in frustration. She was jumping up and down and banging her head between her hands. She was disheveled and wearing only one shoe. The other one was probably lost in that puddle. Between pauses in biting herself, she swore and yelled the same thing over and over again.
This part is hard to explain. It was composed chaos. People were running frantically trying to get away from the explosions and the flames. One man ran by us. I think he called us fools and shouted for us to move on. He was bleeding from his shoulder. Another one followed not far behind and ran by us yelling, “Get out of my way . . . get out of my way.” Without being fully aware and without knowing why, I started back toward the stairs.
In the morning you will say, “If only it were evening!” and in the evening, “If only it were morning!”—because of the terror that will fill your hearts and the sights that your eyes will see. (Deuteronomy 28:67)
I lost my virginity to a stranger at fifteen years old. I was a popular high school sophomore with the personality of a cheerleader. I had more social engagements than homework assignments, and my many extracurricular activities afforded me more than reliable excuses to sneak away from school with friends.
One evening on my walk home at dusk, a gun and the cold hands of a stranger introduced me to the bitter truth about the evil that lurks in the hearts of man. Brutal thievery forced my body to a place reserved for those in love and left me angry and confused. I let go of all fantasies about first loves. All future intimate moments of sweet surrender were lost forever in the ugliness of a .32-caliber revolver, beer breath, and cheap cologne.
Years passed before I understood the nature of sex crimes and managed to let go of the bitterness. I came to understand the detachment of it all and I finally found some truths in my experience. I learned to count it all joy, like my father often said. I learned and believed that the gift of love is the one universal certainty of any significance to God. I learned and knew that even in the worst of times, God’s loving arms are outstretched and waiting to carry us through.
More than anything, I wish I could speak of joy that came through all the suffering on that particular September morning, but I cannot. There was none. However, in the greatest moments of desperation and overwhelming sorrow, God’s loving and outstretched arms were waiting for my acceptance. I now know that His holy presence and peace called to me at every point of overwhelming despondency and paralyzing trepidation.
I know that the Lord walked with me through that concourse. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . .
He held me as my head turned about quickly and my eyes scoped every inch of what remained. I will fear no evil.
It was another place entirely. It was surreal, like a 3-D movie; too gigantic and slow to participate in, yet too fast for retreat. I felt vulnerable and very mortal. For thou art with me.
Everything I saw broke my heart a little more. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. . . . Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
Amen.
Chapter 9
War Zone
Spiritual Wickedness
What I saw was more than humbling. It was completely and unequivocally self-stripping. This grand beauty that minutes before was strong and filled with magnificence and light was suddenly bare and broken. Shards of glass lay strewn beneath what once were beautiful walls of glass.
What remained of the glass revolving doors was red with bits and pieces of human flesh clinging to them. I was flabbergasted, but I kept moving. I walked around in a trance with others who, like me, were aware of what they saw but were unable to connect emotionally.
There were no flower planters or vendors outside the entrance anymore. Instead, there were chunks of broken stone, crushed benches, and huge peculiar objects glowing or still burning. There were fallen chandeliers and deserted security stations. There was no aroma of deli food or smell of maintenance, only fuel odor, piles of ash, and debris. All not burning, glowed with an intense heat. All not cut and weakened by a thousand jagged edges was not far from it. All that remained was desolation.
I covered my face with my hands and slowly bowed my head.
Movement caught my attention, and I looked up. It was then that I heard the scrambled radios and noticed police officers carrying victims and firefighters racing into the stairways. There they were—the cavalry—my knights.
One after the other those noble men ran toward the upper floors with little hope of survival and all the grace of God. They shouted to one another as they hurried about, and despite the distance between us, I saw dread in their faces. I saw years of training and rescue procedures boil down to that one moment. That moment that broke millions of hearts with a single falling tear or drop of blood heard from downtown New York City to the hills of California, the towers in Paris, and the deserts of Afghanistan.
I believe the rescuers knew what was waiting for them up those stairs. Their eyes said so. I believe they knew they wouldn’t return, and although there was no time for intense soul searching or contemplation, I saw them choose the ultimate sacrifice. I saw them! Radios ignored! Some with gear in hand and others with equipment resolutely unfastened and left behind; they began their climb upward and into the pages of history.
They tossed people down the stairs and to safety. They dragged bodies out of the way. They screamed, yelled, and shouted to us to keep moving. They scraped aside metal and glass. With bloodied fingers they moved obstacles while the Twins were getting beaten into total and complete surrender.
Put on the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil. For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places. (Ephesians 6:11–12 kjv)
A large mound of something charred lay near the elevators. A woman, I think, lay near it. A small amount of blood was near her neck area. Her legs splayed out awkwardly, and her eyes were shut, but not completely; they had rolled back as if she was unconscious. Her arm lay to her side and her chest rose and dropped rapidly. She was panting.
I just stood there, watching, listening—and with every moment that passed, I lost a little bit more of the woman I was at 8:45 that morning. Every second that I stood breathing was a miracle, and each one confirmed for me my finite self.
Most of us have had “mystical” moments in one way or another. At some point in our lives we have had that feeling of déjà vu or dread in a premonition. We have found occasion to share unnatural stories about visions or of dreaming about gardens one night and then receiving flowers the next day. Sometimes we encounter experiences that are unexplainable or unattached to a particular person or event. These moments are easy enough to ignore, because our first instinct is to disbelieve what we cannot understand and discount what is unfamiliar to us.
But there are those rare circumstances in which there is a convergence of spiritual awareness, insight, and fulfillment, and one dreadful place is born or realized
. Although to describe it as a place is ambiguous. It is no more a “place” than I am a “thing.” It crosses that extreme and fine line between spiritual awareness and psychosis. It is more accurately described as a resolute challenge to our limited and relative mind. It is a vast and incalculable core of awareness that goes beyond our tiny range of personal knowledge, experience, accountability, or understanding of space, time, self, familiarity, identity, and even reality. It is distinct, and it is the determination of the now we live in. Call it the spirit realm, imagination, hyperbole . . . or insanity. You may even write it off as enigmatic, but whatever it is, it is—was—the backdrop of my day and it was, without a doubt, linked to that inner place.
I wandered inside of myself . . .
. . . and there it was, the one “thing” that had called to me my entire life. That thing that had drawn me in for so long and kept me on the edge. That thing that made it impossible for me to walk dark halls or believe in “floating” molecules seen through my periphery. That thing that I never dared speak of . . . until now.
Never before had I dared to travel so deep inside of me to touch this “thing” or find this “place.” I fail miserably even in describing my inability to describe it. Nevertheless, I am aware now of my finite self and infinite spirit. I am aware that beyond my flesh or inside of me and in each of us is a “place” where we war.
This is the place that resolves our lives and how victoriously or “defeatedly” we live them. This is “that place” where spirits dwell and linger and seek to destroy, and though we are equipped to fight we are not prepared. We lack understanding and walk superstitiously in fear and disbelief. But disbelief does not topple truth!
Escape from the World Trade Center Page 4
