I put down the receiver, stunned and speechless. I knew my heart had just been ripped out, but it had happened so suddenly that I hadn’t really felt it yet. I felt the dread slowly creep into me, into every corner of my being. It couldn’t be true. It felt like a nightmare. And the truth is, it was a nightmare… but I couldn’t wake up from this one. I still can’t.
The dread continued to swell until a small voice broke the silence. It said, “Who was that on the phone, mommy?” The dread stopped seeping in—and it started flooding in. My last thought before I was completely overwhelmed was this: “Oh no…. I have to tell them.” Then the grief overtook me.
I collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably. I could not move. With my back to my daughters—twins at age five, the youngest at three—I slowly regained my composure. I felt that I had to be strong for them.
“Mommy, what’s wrong?”
“Girls—“ I started, my voice cracking hard. I drew in a deep breath. “Girls… I need to talk to you about something.” I stood and faced them. Looking into their expectant, innocent eyes I was almost lost to grief again. With all my effort, I swallowed hard, and was able to tell them, “Let’s go into your room. Sit on the bed, there.” We walked back into their rooms, and I helped sit them on the edge of the bed. We sat in silence for a moment.
“When will daddy be home?” I felt like vomiting. I choked back the tears and looked at my daughters, one by one.”
“Sweetie… Daddy’s not—“ My voice broke again. Another deep breath. “Daddy’s not coming home,” I finally said. I hated myself for telling them that their father had died. It was cruel. They were so young.
“Can I call him on his cell phone?” They didn’t understand.
“No…” I had to say it again. Torture. “They don’t have cell phones in heaven,” I tried, pleading that they could grasp what I meant. Tragic understanding spread across the twins’ faces. One of them, tears welling up, asked another question.
It was then that I heard the saddest thing ever spoken:
“Can the postman get a letter to him there?”
They were ushering people down the stairs, trying their best to evacuate everyone.
“Hey!” One of them shouted. The others turned. He directed their attention to a room of about fifty or so people, all sitting down. They ran to the room, but when they arrived, they noticed why they were sitting down: everyone in that room was in a wheelchair, or in a walker.
“This isn’t good…” one fireman breathed out. But they were determined to save as many people as possible. They called for those who could walk to come quickly. A few stood and ambled over, using whatever crutch they had. They told them to follow, leading the way down the stairs from the 27th floor.
They moved slowly, with eight firemen leading, seven bringing up the rear. Every man in that crew fought back tears trying not to think of those they had to leave behind. They hurried on.
As they made it to the stairwell, the floor gave way, and most of the group fell with it.
“No!!” A couple of men shouted. They stared for only a moment as they stared after their comrades, brothers, and sisters. The stairwell had remained intact, but it wouldn’t hold for much longer. There remained only the eight firemen in the lead and one elderly woman. One of the men turned and asked, “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Josephine,” I answered.
“Josephine,” he repeated. “We’re gonna get you out of here.” I nodded and we pressed onward and downward. The movement was slow, but we kept on. The farther we went, the harder it got. God blessed me with the strength to make it this most of the way down. I had already made my way down fifty floors on my own before the firemen showed up. We were on the sixth now. I couldn’t go on any longer. I had to stop.
The firemen were understanding, but I sensed their urgency. It was a miracle we had gotten this far. Maybe God’s miracles only go so far. But I had to remain strong. This tragedy was not the work of God.
At that very moment, a terrible noise erupted from every direction. The tower was collapsing. We were finished. It was the end. I felt terrible for slowing these noble men down, and being the cause of their death. They could have lived if it weren’t for me.
“I’m scared,” I said.
“We’re all a little scared,” one replied to me. He put his arm around me and I felt comforted.
Soon the noise stopped. We survived the crash, but we were trapped in the stairwell with no way out. The chief called on his radio for help. No answer came. He kept trying, sending out a distress call, repeating the word “mayday.” He tried in vain for what seemed like an hour. Then we heard the sound of hope:
“Go ahead with the mayday.”
“We’re in the north stairwell,” the chief said excitedly. “Ladder 6.”
“Copy, Ladder 6. How do we get there?” the radio answered.
“Enter the glass doors, turn down the first hallway on your left, and you’re here.”
“Negative, Ladder 6. We can’t find you.” The chief looked confused. He had given clear directions, but he only knew the way through a building that still stood. He continued trying to navigate our rescuers to our location. It took several hours until we saw a beam of light appear from beneath our feet. We all sighed in relief and hugged each other. They continued clearing away the rubble, but realized they couldn’t get me out safely downward. They would have to come in through the top.
A helicopter appeared above us, and another fireman came down and offered me his hand. “Come this way, doll. Give me your hand. There you go. We’ll get you out of here, doll.” The fireman who’d comforted me earlier grabbed him arm and looked him hard in the eyes.
“It’s not ‘doll.’ She has a name: Josephine.” The other fireman apologized.
“Josephine. Let’s get you home.” With that, I was pulled to safety.
I will always remember those men. They were my guardian angels, though they always call me theirs. I have remained close with my angels since then, and I always will. I wouldn’t be alive today if it weren’t for them.
That day I learned that God’s miracles never go halfway. God sends his angels among us to work His miracles.
SACRIFICE.
I sat glued to my seat in terror. A group of men had taken over the plane, they had a bomb and knives. I didn’t know what to do. They had already stabbed the pilots and a flight attendant. Would I survive?
There was a man sitting in front of me, whispering with the other passengers. It seemed important. I leaned forward to hear. He noticed.
When he turned his head toward me, I sat back and tried to act innocent. I never was good at acting.
“You for it?” he asked.
“Umm…” I stammered.
“We’re voting on whether or not to rush the hijackers.” I was shocked. Here I was, passively allowing these men to lead us, most likely, to our deaths, and this man—normal by most standards—was organizing a rebellion.
“Are you in?” he asked again. I sobered myself and nodded.
“I’m in,” I said. We had to do something. The others cast their votes. It ended in favor of the rush. The man looked at us somberly.
“Call your families. Tell them you love them. It’s time to—“ he choked. “Time to say goodbye.” We took a moment to brace ourselves, then used what phones were working to call home. The man in front of me didn’t hang up. He couldn’t connect to his family, so he spoke with an operator. He looked at us. His eyes met mine.
“Are you guys ready?” I nodded. “Okay. Let’s roll.”
And with those words, we went into action, running for the cockpit. The man who had taken over the controls rolled the plane from side to side after hearing the commotion. We held onto seats and fell over each other. One of the attackers came toward us, brandishing his knife when the plane had stabilized. The people in front charged him and wrestled the knife away from him but not without injury; one passenger was wounded and another had been killed. A larger man stabbed the hijacker and we pressed on, stepping over the bodies of a friend and a foe. We could hear yelling from the cockpit as we came closer, and the plane pitched up and down violently. Those who could made their way to the cockpit and overtook the two standing guard.
The plane suddenly angled downward steeply as we broke into the cockpit, and I stumbled a bit. The man who was sitting in front of me ran to the nose of the plane, grabbed the piloting hijacker and threw him to the ground. He pulled up as hard as he could on the controls. But even with the attackers controlled, there was no way we could pull out of the dive. We weren’t able to save ourselves, but we had stopped the terrorists from accomplishing their plot.
We looked out the cockpit window, watching the ground rise up to meet us. We were all at peace when we died, I think.
NOT ONE FORGOTTEN.
I am a man on a plane. Terrorists have hijacked the plane. I know I will die soon.
I panic and worry and fret.
There is a dead someone in the aisle. I look away. I look out the window and see New York close below, flying by at an incredible speed.
I hear people crying around me, and I cry a little too.
I hear passengers calling their loved ones, saying how much they care about them. I have no loved ones to call.
I am a deafened man.
I am a burning man.
I am a dead man.
I am a name on a list on every news network in America, and some around the world. No one cries when they see me.
I am a name on a memorial. I watch people come and look at the other names around me and some weep. No one weeps for me, though. They read my name and then read the next one, and the next one, looking for one in particular, or maybe none in particular.
I am forgotten.
I am a man in the street. I am running late for my plane. I might make it if I hurry.
I am late because a hurried woman spilled her coffee on me.
I am late because every cab driver ignores me.
I am late because I slept through my alarm.
I am late because I got pulled over for speeding.
I am late because I fainted and fell down the stairs. Now I am in the hospital.
I am getting to the airport as fast as I can. I barely miss my flight.
I wait a long time for the next available flight. I watch the news on the airport television. I see a plane crash into a building. I see the flight number. I check my ticket.
It was the flight I missed.
I read the list of passengers’ names on the news. I cry.
I visit the memorial where my name should have been if that woman hadn’t spilled her coffee.
If I had gotten in that cab.
If I had woken up to my alarm.
If the cop didn’t pull me over.
If I wasn’t in the hospital.
I read the names on the wall. I shed a tear for every name that isn’t mine.
I stop at one name in particular. I sob openly. I collapse in tears.
We do not know him.
We will always remember him.
This is beautiful, and made me cry.
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