Poem from a priest: Serving at ‘Ground Hero’

Editor’s note: Ten years ago Father Mike McCullough, LAPD Chaplain, was sent by the L.A Police Memorial Foundation to respond to a request by the New York/New Jersey Port Authority Police to engage in critical incident counseling following the terrorist attacks of Sept. 11, 2001. From Oct. 2-7, “it was my privilege,” he says, to be part of a team of eight police peer counselors and two chaplains working with the NYPD, NYFD and the Port Authority Police. Three of those days he spent at “Ground Hero.” The following poem represents what he saw and witnessed during those six days.


GROUND HERO
Life goes on
The beat goes on
New Yorkers are resilient.
It would take a lot more
Than a few yellow weasels
To break their backs.

The cops are tough, like their winters,
But they break into a smile
In a heartbeat
“How aw ya?” they say with a big grin
Though their eyes
Tell another story,
Betray exhaustion
Marrow-bone sorrow.

Our reception is magnanimous
Our contribution so miniscule
Yet
“Better one candle to light
Than the darkness to curse.”
Perhaps it made a difference to one star fish!

Ground Zero
Became
Ground Hero
Became
Cement and glass that
Became
Volcanic pumice ash
Grist for the teeth of the grinding mill
Flesh and metal all churned
Through the same grinder
Still-red steel
Dripping blood-molten liquid
2000-3000 degrees
22 days later.
(I never thought of steel as combustion material)
Applied water
Turning to steam
Sulfur fumes
Bowels of hell.

I somehow
Confused
Ruminated as to how
These uniformed heroes
Died in vain.
Everyone knows —
’Cause we’ve heard it over and over again —
“Determined terrorists use a calculated technique . . .
Staged an event
Followed by a second event
Designed to execute as many
Public safety personnel as possible.”
“How could these heroes of America
Not think of that?” I asked myself over and over.

Then
Arriving at curbside
Outside JFK airport in New York
A port authority sergeant
Made it all make sense:

“You know, 30,000 got out alive!”

Now, I understand.

The atrocity of the slaughter
Of innocent life
The sacrilege of satan’s servants
Doing this in the name of Allah
Has been accomplished.
The only sacrilege that remains
Would be for us to forget
What these public servants did
To save so many.
In 106 minutes
410 public servants purchased with their lives
The safe escape of
Thousands of John and Jane Q. citizens
Traded death for lives
And asked their own families to sign the contract:
350 firefighters and EMTs
37 port authority police
23 New York City police;

For each one who died,
73 people got out
Owe their lives.

What did I hear?
“Since this happened, I don’t feel like I’m praying.”
“I’m just going through the motions.”
“I feel like a hypocrite.”

The firefighter
Remembering the rain of body parts
And bodies
Falling from the sky
As he tried to lead his three brothers to safety.
All three brothers died.

A Jewish doctor
Who’s still having trouble sleeping
Because he sees images
Related to him
By peace officers
Of WTC ground floor windows
Spatter-covered with blood
And manikin-looking body parts
That aren’t manikins.
Brutal images
Witnessed second-hand
Inducing traumatic stress
Compassion fatigue
Vicarious overload.

A New York police chaplain,
Speaking as worn-out local clergy
Has perhaps said it all:
“We may need to reestablish our identity
Spirituality wise.”
And more
And more.

10/06/01 found body
2200-2300 hours
FDNY Carle Molinari.

Out of a tiny opening in
One of the 5- to 10-story-high mounds of
Girder-twisted rubble
“Ground Zero” rescue crew
Carefully extracts the smoldering
Steaming remains of
One of their own.
LAPD chaplain Dave,
The Salvation Army chaplain
And myself
Form up and lead
The procession of six
Carrying the body bag
Of holy remains
Draped in Ol’ Glory.

Three blocks the procession winds
Past saluting,
Red-eyed,
Dust-covered
Fire and police personnel
Past emergency responders
From 50 jurisdictions
Who all stand tall
Proud and saluting
As if this were a Marine
Coming home from Iwo
Until we reach the temporary morgue
Where amidst all the solemnity
Our tired bodies can muster
We pray for his soul to rest
And for his family’s comfort.

The coroners do their
Work quickly
Unzipping and rezipping the body bag
Long enough to confirm
His identity
From his uniform and
Gear markings.
I will never listen to the Scripture passage
The same again
Where Lazarus laid three days in
The tomb and there was a stench.
Our brother’s body laid
26 days in the tomb.
And now it is my profound privilege
To pray the blessing over his body.
[I am told he is Italian and that I
Can assume he is Catholic and so:]

“May the God of all consolation
Bless you in every way
And grant you hope all the days of your life.
Amen.

May God restore you to health
And grant you salvation.
Amen.

May God fill your heart with peace
And lead you to eternal life.
Amen.

May Almighty God bless you
The Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.”

Someone barks,
“Uniformed personnel ... pre-sent arms!”
And we all salute.
“Por-ter ... arms!”

6 NYPD motors on Harleys
Honor guard the ambulance to Bellevue.

80 firerigs and ambulances destroyed
Along with names like
Wooley, Guadalupe, Ragalia,
Santora, Gill, Angelini,
O’Callaghan, Lynch, Oitice,
Haub, Tip and Brennan
Engine 54
And the 4 truck.

10,000 orphans.

The parking garage
Orange spray painted
“God’s house”
By a fire captain
Where three huge
Perfectly proportioned
I-beam crosses
Were discovered.

An FDNY EMT who helped
Carry the body of NYC fire chaplain
Father Mychal Judge.
After a deep conversation
Tears and hugs exchanged
Removes his FDNY collar pin and
Attaches it to my police jacket
Next to my right collar chaplain insignia.
I’ve never seen a face
Of greater pain, sadness
Fatigue, desolation.
God shed his grace on thee, brother.

I made two pilgrimages to St. Peter’s Church,
The Franciscan parish of Father Mychal.
Early morning hours,
No one there,
Knelt and prayed at the altar
Where they had laid his limp
Body,
Covered it with a sheet,
And a priestly stole
And his fireman’s badge.
When I arrived,
A large flag over the altar
Was his temporary epitaph.
His was the way to die.

As operation “Enduring Freedom” begins,
A B-52 bears the painted words on the nose
“NYPD — we remember.”

During the Port Authority Police
Memorial service
The governor was there and the mayor
And thousands
As the names of the 744
Scrolled
I closed my eyes
To see a round-face
Fully-bearded
With long, bushy, curly hair
Wearing NYPD cap and uniform.
As the face faded I opened my eyes.
At one of the last names,
A solitary voice stabbed the heart
Of the Madison Square Garden silence;
“M y b a b y!”
With all the terror and loss
Of Rachel weeping for her children.

In the war that lies ahead,
We must prepare ourselves
To lose all material things
And anyone we love...

In conversations with 600 New Yorkers
I met no one
Who did not suffer
A major loss —
A treasured, cherished skyline,
A home,
Or beloved friend,
A family member
Or distant relative.

Our band of ten was applauded at both
JFK and Ontario airports
As our captain announced us and our mission
Over the plane public address before landing.

For me,
Rock hammer chipping away at Mount Rushmore;
It was like that.

I gave away about 400 Archangel Michael medals
And a few of St. Florian,
Catholic patrons of cops and firefighters
And elicited many a smile.
That was my joy.

In the Episcopal church of Saint Paul
Built in the 1760s
Where George Washington
Maintained a pew in the 1790s
Now a giant comfort station at virtual Ground Zero
His pew is a foot care station.
Imagine that —
A bit ironic in light
Of the winter at Valley Forge,
Physical feet and bodies
Hearts and souls must
Be cared for
As we spend ourselves
Living the motto,
“Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.”

[Please pray with me:]

Wonder counselor
God of the hurting
Father of helpers.

We prostrate ourselves before you
We beg your mercy
For our brothers and sisters in New York
We plead for your wisdom, your strength
As we reach out to others in pain.

We humbly ask your forgiveness
For the times we neglected to praise you.

Show us the way
To walk unaccustomed paths.
For it is you who teach us,
In the inmost recesses of our hearts,
How to:
Console the widow,
Embrace the orphan,
Shelter the homeless
Listen with kindness
Stand erect in persecution.

You wept when the stench of death was strong
And then raised us to new levels of life.

Oh God, in our time of national crisis
May each of us bring consolation to others
As you have brought it to us.
Amen.


Post Script: This poem was written Oct. 16, 2001, on the banks of the Sacramento River, nine days after I got home. The other chaplain on my team committed suicide in April of 2008.
This experience was the most moving incident of my 38 years in Law Enforcement Ministry.

Fr. Mike McCullough, LAPD Chaplain, will be honored as a Distinguished Alumni of St. John's Seminary on Sept. 25.