Fast forward: Sunday morning July 18, 2010. New York City. Clint and I woke up to the alarm at 7:00am. We got dressed and were on the subway headed to Ground Zero by 8:00. The prettiest morning of our four day trip. We walked several blocks, turned the corner, and stood by ourselves at the southeast corner of the site. Not another person on the sidewalk on either side of the street. New York City was still sleeping, and we had the place to ourselves. A peaceful stillness hung in the air accompanied by that feeling. The one that is present at any hallowed place. The second thing we noticed were the numerous cranes (eight that we could see, maybe more) sitting idle in the hole that is nearly filled, each one with an American flag hanging from it, fence wrapped in vinyl keeping the view of the the ground itself obstructed. I instinctively smiled at the flags and again felt proud to be an American.
We walked down the length of the sidewalk and I was immediately drawn to a breathtaking cemetery nestled in the churchyard of an old church surrounded by a black iron fence that sits directly across the street from where the World Trade Center Towers once stood. I haven't felt that drawn to a place in a long, long time and I remember thinking at the time how odd it was that I was drawn more to that cemetery and church than I was to Ground Zero itself. I had such a longing to go in the gate and sit on one of the benches in the churchyard.
We walked slowly past and crossed the street to where the temporary 9/11 Memorial is only to discover that we were too early. They weren't open yet. And so we crossed back over and entered in the west gate that surrounds the church, having no idea as we entered that this place would hold for us an experience that would reach down and profoundly touch our souls. Still alone (in the middle of downtown New York City!!!) we meandered through the tombstones reading the names and dates and wondering at the people who rested there, noticing chunks of stone missing off the tops from the debri and rubble that blew through the yard as the towers came crashing down. As we drew closer to the church we came upon a little blue sign which told a very brief history of the church and revealed to us just exactly where we were: St. Paul's Chapel. The oldest public building in continuous use and the only remaining colonial-era church in Manhattan. In 1789 George Washington prayed at St. Paul's after his inauguration as the first President of the United States. We continued up the sidewalk and hidden from the view of the street or the lower edges of the cemetery on the west side hung a large bell, sitting off to the left outside the chapel doors. The Bell of Hope.
Inscribed on the upper portion of the Bell: To the Greater Glory of God, And in Recognition of the Enduring Links Between the City of London and the City of New York. Inscribed on the lower portion: Forged in Adversity - 11 September 2001.
A gift presented to the people of New York by the Lord Mayor of London and the Archbishop of Canterbury on September 11, 2002. The Bell of Hope was created by England's renowned Whitechapel Foundry, which also cast the Liberty Bell and London's Big Ben. Inlaid in the pedestal, directly beneath the bell, is a brass footprint of the World Trade Center Towers. It is rung every September 11, and was rung on March 11, 2004, when trains were bombed in Madrid, Spain and on July 7, 2005, after the London subway and bus attacks. The ringing of the bell symbolizes the triumph of hope over tragedy. Like the majority of people in the country and the world we had no idea the bell was even there. I couldn't resist the overwhelming urge to lightly run my fingers across the words "Forged in Adversity".
Emotions already close to the surface just from being on hallowed ground, then discovering this treasure, we noticed the doors to the chapel were open. We tentatively stepped through, afraid of disturbing or trespassing, and discovered a welcome haven, a beautiful sanctuary, a museum piece itself housing displays around the edges of events of September 11th and the days and weeks that followed. Still we were alone except for a priest standing quietly off in the corner. We quietly walked around looking at the pictures of the dirty and exhausted firemen and rescue workers and medical personnel sleeping in the pews, the photos of missing loved ones and ribbons and memorabilia hanging from the iron fence that surround the Chapel, the small cross forged out of metal from the rubble of the towers, each small display telling a story of those haunting days. The small collection of the photos of those missing they have left up making it more than a nightmarish display witnessed on TV nine years prior. The displays also telling the story of how in the middle of the chaos and tragedy there arose from those working there day in and day out a brotherly love, and hope. It made it real. As we made our way to the other side a man came in and began to play the piano, the acoustics of the old church being perfect. And then, a woman came and began to sing. No microphone. Just her voice and the piano echoing perfectly in that chapel. And it struck me to the very core and I could not keep the tears I had been choking back from coming and I wept. There, in that chapel, on that quiet Sunday morning while New York City still slept, across the street from Ground Zero, I stood next to and on sacred ground. It took me the rest of the day to compose myself. I didn't take a single picture inside that chapel that day. It would have been too irreverant. But no picture could have ever captured the experience and the feelings that had been burned inside me. We eventually made it across the street to the temporary 9/11 Memorial. It was nothing after being in St. Paul's.
Today as I have thought about those events nine years ago that burned themselves into my memory, I have also thought of the ringing of the Bell of Hope at St. Paul's Chapel. I have longed to be there to bow my head in silence and reverance and respect for all those that died that day in New York, in D.C., and in rural Pennsylvania. I have, as I do every year, thought of the families left behind, thought of those that worked so feverishly and diligently that day and the days and weeks that followed, thought of those who of their own volition serve our country as soldiers and the families that support them. And I have longed to hear the toll as it sounds for the triumph of hope over tragedy. Forged in adversity. I remember, and I hope.
4 comments:
Powerfull had to stop twice to wipe the tears
Cousin Joe, some days I feel like not writing any more, then you say something to encourage me. Thank you so much for that! Really, thank you.
Kelly you have a real talent that God has blessed you with it takes a lot to bring tears this this old heart please don"t stop bloging I check every day for a new post it gives me something to look forward to. Love the new layout can't wait till you'al come back to NC I want to meet all the crew.
I promise that if no one else in this whole world ever reads my blog again, I won't stop writing just for you. Next time we head to NC I'll have Mrs. Lail give you a heads up. We would love to visit with you!
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