firefighters – all our lemmony things

I had the strangest dream last night.

Now, I have some pretty off the wall dreams at times so for me to say it was the strangest is kind of a big deal for me.

In my dream I joined the search of the hundreds of people right now trudging through debris and mud and toppled cars and fences in the Oso area here in Washington, lifting piles of unrecognizable filth to find the victims of the horrific mudslide. This area is close to where I grew up in Arlington, barely a fifteen minute drive, so I had spent time in this place. I had spent summers along these now flooded riversides and jogs against the backdrop of these now crumbled hills. In my dream I vividly saw the stillness of the pastures and the emptiness of the flattened landscape–a grave now to all of those who walked here or drove or worked nearby when the mountains gave way just nine days ago. Oddly enough, even though in reality it’s not this close, I saw my old backyard in my dream as well–flattened. Overturning branches and muck and fighting through tears, I frantically searched and searched. Then suddenly, I heard someone calmly say to me, “He is not here.”

I woke up from the dream this morning knowing fully well why that voice in my dream had to tell me that. It was about my Dad. And that voice will soon be whispering it to the hearts of all of those still trudging through the remains of the landslide, clutching shoes and wallets and remnants of children and parents.

On the news last night a firefighter, with his hat drawn off his head and dirt surrounding his eyes, said mournfully, “We know this isn’t a rescue mission anymore–it’s a recovery mission. But in our hearts, for a long time, it’ll be a rescue mission.”

Tears raced to my eyes when I heard the man say that–and the reality of what a rescue mission is followed me into last night’s dream. No matter who you’ve lost–or how you’ve lost them–your spirit goes through a period of time where you’re on a rescue mission. Not usually literally. You’re looking for ways to feel them or sense them close by to bring them into your “present”. You’re hunting through memories and retracing their face over and over as to not forget. You’re half-expecting them to come through the door again, only to be devastatingly disappointed when there are moments that you realize they won’t. Of course, they won’t, you’ll cry. And it’ll hurt all the same. You’ll also relive memories of the moment they died or the place they died or the last time you held their hand–and that moment seems to be where they forever lay.

But it’s not.

To minimize the devastating effects of the Oso and Arlington area landslide is not my intent. My heart breaks for the people who lived a stone’s throw away from me–people who lost children and parents and siblings and neighbors and pets. People who now sit and rest against what used to be a rooftop, looking out at a dismal landscape made up of mud and tears. The loss is indescribable.

But at the same time I can draw a simple parallel to the words of that one firefighter. Maybe you can too. Maybe those words rang true for all of us who have gone through the sting of loss in one way or another.

The moment where you know for a fact your loved one is truly gone doesn’t always occur at the same time that your heart figures it out. And for a while it just remains a rescue mission. For a while you trudge through the debris of the unrecognizable world around you. For a while you’re looking for the dead in all the wrong places.

As for me, I know I have been. I’ve been angry at times for not feeling Dad as much as I’d like–and have been praying for him to be part of my life again in any way I can muster. I’ve been vividly remembering the day he left us, reliving the night painfully, stuck in that pocket of time as if Dad were stuck there too. But just as the angel told Mary as she leaned against a rolled-away stone and peered into any empty grave for the Savior, “He is not here; for he is risen, as he said.” (Matthew 28:6)

I pray for peace for all of those who still search and wander the debris near my hometown. I pray that their rescue mission can come to an end and that they too will remember that their loved ones aren’t there–but in a place that has risen far above shallow graves. I pray for your own rescue mission to end too. I pray that the angels will find us all at empty tombs, reminding us gently of where we should look instead.

The voice reminds me of it when I look for my Dad in painful memories of his last day in hospice. He is not buried or stuck in folds of memory or fenced into the past. He is not laying idle on a hospital bed. He is not sick. That echoed voice of an angel from the scriptures gently reminds me to leave the debris and remember the promise of eternal life.

That gentle voice reminds me to look up.

It’s been 12 years.

But tears still fill my eyes when I see those towers fall.

I still get goosebumps as firefighters take off their hats and surround memorials.

I still remember. And I was barely 12.

But it was the day I became an American.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I was born a citizen, and for many, many generations my family has lived here in America and each of them probably have different days within their lives that they would consider that pivotal point where they went from citizen to American– the time when they realized they don’t just live here by accident. They weren’t just given this land.

I was walking to the bus stop when my friend from across the street called me over, telling me that planes hit the World Trade Center. At the time, I didn’t even know what those were. But I had a feeling it was bad. I knew that people were probably in those buildings. A knot formed in my stomach right away.

At school they grouped us all in front of little televisions mounted in the corners of every classroom, explaining to us what was happening and giving us time to open up our little journals and write about what we felt. Looking back, I still remember how I didn’t know much about anything involved in that day–I didn’t know about terrorists or the Taliban. Or government affairs. Or foreign relations. I didn’t know much about hate. But suddenly, I did know something. And that was loyalty.

In my journal that day I wrote a poem called “The Flag was still there”. Because that’s all I really knew.

The flag, I noticed, amidst the huddles of people crying out, arms stretched toward a spot of vacant sky once hidden by towers, was still fluttering on a rooftop. The flag on the fire station where hundreds of firefighters had ran for the last time through those doors that day, lunging into crumbing buildings and giving their lives to the flames, was still hanging. The beautiful flag, a symbol even my 12-year-old self knew that represented “home”, was still dotted among those already gone and laid to rest in the cemeteries of fallen soldiers; soldiers that would soon welcome so many lives home that day.

That flag remaining above the debris was my confidence that we’d make it through. I knew that much. And within moments, eyes glued to the television, my heart racing at the horrible sights of planes striking towers, people running in the streets and falling from hundreds of stories high, and news anchors grasping for words amidst their own tears and horror as we all watched together–within moments I became an American. An American so proud to call this place home. An American angry at the lives taken so violently that day. An American who didn’t know much about the country other than the fact that all these people sharing this land with me were Americans too, sharing freedoms together and dreams together. And when the planes hit those people, it hit every single one of us too.

It’s been 12 years, but I still remember that day. And although I know a little more than I did then as I scrawled a poem in my journal, I still think that the most important thing is the little piece of knowledge I held on to as a middle-school kid.

The flag is still there:

Reminding us of what makes us Americans.

Beckoning us to never forget.

Tag: firefighters

He is not here: A reminder during a rescue mission

The day I became an American: A look back to 9/11