Ryan Taylor was grateful.
Other teams might have been capable of playing football five days after the tragedy of September 11, but the teams in New York and Washington, D.C., certainly were not. It was all Ryan and the other coaches could do to keep the Giants focused on a light practice.
For the most part, none of the team members wanted to play football. They wanted to be out on the streets handing water bottles to firemen, passing out sandwiches, moving debris—whatever they could do to help.
The rescue effort was beyond anything Ryan had ever seen. A thick, pungent smoke hung across the city, and ash covered every exposed inch. But the area around Ground Zero had quickly become the scene of a massive coordinated effort as the wrenching process of removing, sorting, and disposing of layer upon layer of rubble got under way. As they searched for survivors, firefighters and volunteers faced the grim task of finding the remains of victims, some of whom had been their friends or coworkers.
Ryan and a handful of players had been allowed past security to a food-and-water station fifty yards from Ground Zero. What he saw from even that far away was unbelievable.
Off to the side of the main disaster site, in the midst of the rubble stood a perfect cross, formed by a section of steel beams that had fallen away from the rest of the structure. The cross towered fifteen feet high and stood strangely secure amidst the unstable ruins. That afternoon, as Ryan handed out water bottles and swapped somber conversation with weary rescue workers, he noticed the cross again. It had become something of a shrine. Flowers had been placed near its base, and small notes were tacked along the upright beam.
Dozens of chaplains made the rounds of volunteers. At any given time that afternoon when Ryan looked up he saw people praying together, hugging each other, stopped in the middle of the rescue effort to comfort and convince each other that life would go on.
Often he caught himself staring up at the gaping hole in the sky, the place where the twin towers had stood. He’d lived in New York only a short time, but he’d quickly come to use the World Trade Center as a navigating landmark; his destinations within the city had been either on one side of the towers or the other. Now, though, nothing but deep blue sky marked the spot. So intrinsic were the buildings to the New York skyline that it was impossible for him to look up and not see the towers still standing, if only in his memory.
He would call Kari tonight and tell her what it was like down here. Since the attacks, she’d been on his mind even more, if that were possible. Life was short, and death too often quick and senseless. Tim’s murder had taught them that much, and now this. . . . News shows were talking about further attacks, biological warfare, chemical weapons, nuclear threats. There were no guarantees any of them would live to see the morning.
Yet here he was in New York City, devoting his life to a game—a game that had done nothing but stand in the way of the life he might have shared with Kari. What was he doing here when the only woman he’d ever loved was alone in Bloomington? What sense was there in that?
Ryan had no answers for himself, except for the fact that he’d made a commitment to the Giants and needed to see it through. He stooped and brushed a layer of ash off an unopened crate of water bottles. As he did, he remembered his father’s words, advice he’d spoken back when Ryan was a senior in high school, looking for a part-time job.
“Honor your commitments, son. If you take a job, give them your best. A man who honors God in the small things will honor him throughout life.”
There was no question Ryan would honor the commitment he’d made to the Giants. Not just because it was the right thing to do. He loved his work, after all. Coaching in the NFL had been his dream ever since he hung up his jersey. But somehow the events of the past week had changed his dreams, made them seem shallow and unimportant. In fact, they’d made it painfully clear that his heart wasn’t in New York at all.
It was a thousand miles away in Bloomington, Indiana.
Ryan slid his thumb beneath a layer of plastic and pulled the bottles from the crate. He coughed hard and looked up. The smoke was thicker than before.
“Hey, stranger.” Ryan felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned around to see Landon Blake.
“Landon . . .” Ryan wasn’t sure what to say. The man was covered in ash, sweat dripping from his forehead. The pain in his eyes was stark. It told Ryan that however bad Ground Zero looked from this distance, the view from up close was unspeakably worse.
Ryan reached out and shook Landon’s hand. “Kari told me you’d be here. I sort of doubted we’d run into each other.”
Landon gestured toward the makeshift station where Ryan was working. “Everyone knows this is where the Giants are helping out.” He wiped his brow, smearing ash along his forehead. “I figured you’d be here.”
Ryan handed him a water bottle. “You and I are both praying men.” He gazed across the disaster scene, then back at Landon. “But right now it’s hard to know where to begin.”
“I know.” Landon set his work boot on a nearby chair and leaned on his knee. “The smell of death and sulfur—it’s awful. Suffocating. Like hell itself.”
There was a pause, and Landon lifted the water bottle, tipped it straight back, and drained it. Ryan grabbed a wrapped sandwich from the table and handed it to him. “I’m sorry about your friend.”
Landon nodded. “Thanks.” He took the sandwich, pulled off the wrapper, and ate nearly half of it in a single bite. Despite the smoke, the sun was bright at that hour of the afternoon, and Landon squinted toward the rescue effort. “There’s still a chance, you know. Jalen’s strong.” He clenched his jaw. “If anyone can survive this, he can.”
Ryan stared at the ashes beneath their feet. What could he say to that? And how long would it be before the firefighters working at Ground Zero were resigned to the probability that they were looking for remains and not survivors? Ryan breathed in sharply through his nose and met Landon’s eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”
Landon tossed his empty bottle and sandwich wrapper into the trash and took a step back toward the rescue effort. “Pray for a miracle.” He waved and started to leave.
“Wait.” Ryan jogged the few steps that separated them. “Was Jalen a believer?”
Landon hesitated. “I’m not sure. He knew about the Lord.”
“Let’s pray now. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.” Landon removed his helmet. “Thanks.”
Ryan put his hand on Landon’s shoulder, and both men bowed their heads. There, with rescue workers scrambling to and from support stations, with cranes and dump trucks making their way down the ash-covered caverns of Manhattan, with the stench of ash and smoke a moment by moment reminder of the devastation around them, they prayed for Jalen.
They prayed for a miracle—one way or another. That the rescue crews would find him safe amidst the rubble. And if not, that Jesus would find him.
Safe amidst the streets of heaven.
* * *
For the first time that fall, Professor Hicks was making sense.
Since the semester began, Luke had dreaded his advanced communications class. The professor often used the time to express his opinions about a number of his pet subjects—anything from the evils of commerce to the dangers of “religious fanaticism.”
At first, Luke had actually agreed with some of what the professor said. Commerce could at times be the cause of a troubled society. And religious extremism had certainly caused heartache and misunderstanding throughout history.
But as the semester got under way, Luke quickly began to understand that to the professor, commerce meant any kind of corporate business, and religious fanatic primarily referred to any conservative Christian.
Professor Hicks had never said as much. In fact, he had made a point not to tell students exactly where he stood—he said it was important to maintain “objectivity.” But he revealed his opinions through offhand remarks and sly digs—even through snide comments he’d written in the margin
s of the first project Luke had prepared for the class. In fact, the professor seemed so obviously biased—and his views so different from Luke’s—that Luke had expected every class period to be a struggle.
Until now. Now, as Luke sat listening, the professor’s words seemed to line up with thoughts Luke didn’t even know he had.
In light of what happened September 11, Professor Hicks had introduced a semester-long assignment: Pair up with someone in the class, and create a class presentation arguing for or against the existence of God.
It was Monday, nearly a week after the attacks, and the professor was pacing along the front of the classroom, explaining his reasons for the assignment.
“You may have noticed how popular the American flag has become in the past week.” He reached the far end of the classroom, paused, and smiled in their direction. “Many people want to say God is bringing our country together, uniting us in our greatest hour of need.”
He chuckled and gave a sad shake of his head. “Okay, fine. This is a communications class, which means we will be learning methods of gathering information and presenting ideas in a persuasive manner. Let’s use these skills to figure out what’s actually going on.”
He stopped pacing and clasped his hands behind his back, leaning slightly forward. “Now I realize this isn’t a philosophy class, so I’m not requiring you to use formal logic. And this isn’t a science class, so I’m not worried about strict scientific method. What I’m talking about is ideas, motivation, thinking clearly and persuasively about something that makes a difference in our world.
“This is important stuff, people!” His voice rose, and he stabbed his finger into the air for emphasis. “Is God really the one at work around the nation today? Or can the positive responses we’re witnessing be attributed to something else?”
Luke sat poised with his pen over a blank piece of paper.
The professor ambled in the opposite direction, waving his hand above his head as though he were grabbing thoughts from an invisible storage unit. “Record numbers of people line up to give blood. Thousands sign up with the armed services. Countless more send in millions of dollars for the victims. Volunteers are streaming in from every city in America.
“God? Maybe.” He stopped pacing and faced them head-on. “Maybe not.”
Luke shifted in his seat. Before September 11, a discussion like this would have made him furious, ready to load up his backpack and stalk out of class. But now . . . now at least it seemed worth listening to. At the top of his notepad he doodled the word God, and beside it he penciled in an oversized question mark.
The professor shrugged and continued pacing. “I believe this assignment will push you to think about your worldview and communicate it coherently. It will require research—you need the facts to be an effective communicator. It will also require persuasive argument—another vital skill. And it will require a commitment to reality—because with reality staring us in the face these days, we don’t have a foundation to stand on.”
He paused. “I want you to think . . . really think.” He smiled at them over his shoulder. “Is there a worldview that adequately explains the way society actually works, good and bad? Does it orbit around belief in some invisible higher being named God—what we call a ‘theistic worldview’?” Here he made a fist to punctuate the phrase. “Or are there other factors at work, ideas that adequately explain human existence without resorting to belief in a higher power? In short, is there a God or isn’t there?”
Luke had scribbled the words theistic worldview.
“However you choose to answer the question,” the professor continued, “you must use facts and logic to support your argument.” The professor ambled toward the whiteboard, grabbed a marker, and wrote in large letters the word humanism. He stepped back from the board. “If you choose to argue against the theistic view, you may do so by siding with an alternative view.” He smiled. “Say, for instance, the worldview of humanism.”
He pointed to the word. “Humanism, ladies and gentlemen, is the philosophy of the day for many people. Whereas theism is based on the assumption that all goodness originates from a higher being, humanism places trust in the power of human intelligence and the human spirit to conquer evil with acts of goodness.”
Luke hid his grin. So much for objectivity. The man’s tone made it clear he hadn’t picked humanism as a random alternative view.
“You, of course, will form your own opinions in the course of this assignment,” the professor was saying. He paced a few slow steps, then paused to look at them once more. “But I caution you—examine both sides. And base your arguments not on your own bias or upbringing but on the preponderance of evidence.”
A dark-haired girl next to Luke leaned over and whispered, “Sounds interesting.”
Luke cast her a quick glance and nodded. She’d sat next to him since the semester began, but he hadn’t really noticed her before.
Two rows from the front a boy raised his hand. “What if our evidence leads us to conclude there is a God?”
Professor Hicks raised his eyebrows in a way that was mildly humorous. “More power to you—as long as you have adequate support for that conclusion.” He directed his attention to the rest of the class. “I’m not telling you how to think here, people. I’m simply suggesting that we’ve never had a better opportunity to become part of what’s happening around us—and in the process to learn valuable lessons about communicating.”
His gaze shifted back to the student in the second row. “Be careful. Your paper mustn’t be based on wishful thinking or parental propaganda. You must avoid stale or emotion-based arguments.” He went on about the assignment specifics—the documentation required, the timing of the oral presentation, the importance of working with a partner. “We should finish up sometime after Thanksgiving.”
Luke jotted down most of what the professor had said and stared at his notes. Was it possible? Had his own faith been nothing more than parental propaganda? Had he merely bought into a myth that had no bearing on reality?
He wouldn’t have considered such a thing before the terrorist attacks. But now . . .
Every night since Reagan left, he had tried to call her at her parents’ house. Most of the time no one answered. When someone did pick up, it was always a friend or relative. And every one of them said the same thing: Reagan wasn’t available. Reagan wasn’t taking calls. Reagan couldn’t come to the phone.
Didn’t she know he was dying without her—that the memory of that Monday night was enough to make him hate himself for what had happened? His family was no help at all. They were caught in a frenzy of patriotism and blind faith that in view of the terrorist attacks seemed completely unfounded.
In fact, the whole city seemed caught up.
Attendance at church yesterday was easily twice what it had been before the tragedy. Normally Luke and Mom and Dad would have sat near Erin, Sam, and Kari. But yesterday Brooke and Peter and even Ashley had been there—the first time they’d been together at a church service since Erin’s wedding. Mom and Dad had both dabbed at tears as Pastor Mark reminded them that good can come from evil and that God had plans for America.
But what good plans could God possibly have?
Reagan’s father was dead. She wouldn’t come to the phone. And together they’d done something they’d promised never to do.
Luke thought back to that evening in the parking lot—back when his greatest concern was whether they’d play softball or watch a football game.
Good from evil?
The only good thing God could do at this point was turn back the clock to September 10 and give them a chance to do it all over again. Luke would watch the football game at home, and Reagan would talk to her father and warn him not to go to work the next day no matter what.
Short of that, Luke couldn’t imagine any good coming from the attacks.
Professor Hicks had moved on to another topic, but Luke couldn’t get his mind off Reagan and her father. Whenev
er Luke called her house, he asked about Mr. Decker. The news was never good. There’d been no sign of Reagan’s father—no sign of any survivors in the enormous pile of debris. The last two victims found alive had been plucked from the rubble days ago.
By now the entire nation was beginning to grasp the enormity of the loss of life from the disaster. Even before the buildings collapsed, the heat inside the twin towers had been figured at nearly twice that of most crematoriums. Not only were rescue workers not going to find the missing people; they probably wouldn’t find their bodies, either. No matter what hope Reagan’s family held on to, the truth was obvious: Tom Decker wasn’t coming home.
Luke drew squiggly lines along the sides of his notes and thought about the professor’s theory. No God, only the power of the human spirit. People who were good, people who were bad. But as the outpouring of support after the terrorist attacks showed, a handful of bad people would always be defeated by a nation of good ones.
Was that all there was, then? The human spirit—nothing more?
It was hard to imagine existing outside the reality of God. What would the humanist theory say about death? That there was nothing after that? That people should be as good as possible, only to spend eternity rotting away in a casket?
Luke pulled himself from the cloud of his random thoughts and focused on God, what he knew of God. What he remembered. All the evidence gathering in the world wouldn’t prove or disprove an invisible, omniscient God. Only one thing could do that.
Lord, I’ve never been more confused in my life. He stared at his paper and tapped his pen quietly. How come everything’s so crazy? Why . . . why did you let it happen? He doodled the word why across the top of his paper. If you’re there, if you can hear me, make things right between Reagan and me. Please, God. That’s all the proof I need.
He looked up and saw the class filing out. The lecture was over. Luke slipped his notebook into his backpack and was heading for the door when the dark-haired girl fell in beside him.
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