“I'm fine,” she'd told Martha. “I'm working through it, but I'm fine at St. Paul's.”
Martha looked doubtful. “You tell me if it's too much.” She wagged a motherly finger at Jamie. “You're a victim same as everyone else.”
The coordinator's words came back to Jamie now, and she swallowed hard. What had the weeping woman just asked her? Did the pain ever go away?
Jamie looked from the woman to the front of the church, the place where the old ornate cross stood like an anchor. Without taking her eyes from it, Jamie gave a slow shake of her head. “No. The pain doesn't go away.” She turned back to the woman. “But God helps us learn how to live with it.”
Another wave of tears hit the woman. Her face contorted, and she pinched the bridge of her nose. “It still … feels like September 12. Sometimes I think it always will.”
A strength rose from within Jamie. Every time she'd been needed in a situation like this one, God had delivered. Every time. She turned so she could see the woman better. “Tell me about your husband.”
“He was a cop.” She lifted one shoulder and ran the back of her hands beneath her eyes. “Everyone's always talking about the firemen, but the cops took a hit too.”
Jamie had heard this before from the wives of other police officers. “Have you been around the chapel yet?”
“I just started when ” She held her breath, probably stifling another wave of sobs.
“It's okay to cry.”
“Thank you.” The woman's shoulders shook again. “This chapel … That's why I'm crying.” She searched Jamie's eyes. “I didn't think anyone cared until I came here, and now ”
“Now you know the truth.”
“Yes.” The woman grabbed a quick breath and stared at a poster on a wall overhead. Oklahoma Cares. Beneath the banner title were hundreds of handprints from children who had experienced the bombing of the Murrow Building in Oklahoma City. One line read, We love our police! “I didn't come before because I didn't want to be angry at anyone. But this is where I need to be; I should've come a hundred times by now.”
“I'm Jamie.” She held out her hand, and the woman across from her took it. “What's your name?”
“Cindy Grammar.” The woman allowed the hint of a smile. “Is it just me, or do you feel something here?”
“I feel it. Everyone who comes inside feels it.”
“It's the only place where the memory of all those people still lives. You know, as a group.”
“Exactly.” Jamie folded her hands in her lap and looked around the chapel at the banners, then at the memorabilia lining the walls—items collected from the edge of the pit or left near the chapel steps. One day the city would have an official memorial to the victims of September 11. But for now, those two thousand people were remembered with grace and love at St. Paul's.
“This city loved my Bill. I could sense that the minute I walked in here.”
“You're right.” Jamie gave Cindy's hand a gentle squeeze. “And no one will forget what he did that day. He was a hero, Cindy. Same as the firefighters.”
The conversation continued for nearly an hour before the woman felt ready to finish making her way around the inside of the building. By then her eyes were dry and she had shared the story of how she'd met her husband, how much they'd loved each other. Jamie knew the names of the woman's two sons, and the fact that they both played high school football.
“Thanks, Jamie.” The woman's expression was still filled with sorrow, but now it was also tinged with gratitude and peace. “I haven't felt this good in months.”
Jamie's heart soared. Her job was to bring hope to the hopeless, and to do it in Jake's name. Again and again and again. She took Cindy's hands again. “Let's pray, okay?”
The woman squirmed. “I'm … I'm not sure about God, Jamie.”
“That's okay.” Jamie's smile came from her heart, from the place that understood God the way Jake had always wanted her to understand. “God's sure about you.”
“Really?” Doubt colored Cindy's eyes.
“Really. We don't have to pray; just let me know.” Jamie bit her lip, waiting.
“I want to.” The woman knit her brow together. “I don't know what to say.”
Jamie gave the woman's hand a gentle squeeze. “I'll say it.” She bowed her head and began, the way she had dozens of times over the past two years. “God, we come to You because You know all things. You are sovereign and mighty and You care about us deeply. Help Cindy believe in You, Lord. Help her to understand that You hold a flashlight as we walk through the valley of the shadow of death. And let her find new life in You. In Jesus' name, amen.”
Jamie opened her eyes.
A fresh sort of peace filled Cindy's face. She leaned closer and hugged Jamie. “I'll be back.”
Jamie smiled. “I know.”
The woman stood and headed for the outer rim of the chapel with a promise to return some day so that maybe the two could talk—and even pray again.
When she was finally alone, Jamie's hands trembled. Her legs were stiff from sitting for so long. Meetings like that were emotionally draining, and Jamie wanted water before she talked to anyone else.
But before she could reach the stairs, another woman approached her, four young teenage girls in tow, each holding a notebook. “Hi, maybe you could help us.”
“Of course.” Jamie gave the group her full attention. “What would you like to know?”
“We're a homeschool group and—” she looked at the girls—“each of the students has a list of questions for you. They want to know how St. Paul's was instrumental in serving the people who cleaned up the pile of debris after the towers collapsed.”
“Okay.” Jamie smiled, but something grated against her heart. The pile of debris? Jake had been in that pile. It was okay for her to call it that, but these people were … they were on a quest for details, like so many reporters. She ignored her irritation and directed the group to the nearest pew. “Let's sit here and we can talk.”
School groups were common, and always needed help from volunteers. They wanted to know how many hundreds of gallons of water were given out—more than four thousand; how many different types of services were offered free to the work crew—podiatry, massage therapy, counseling, chiropractic care, nursing care, and optometry among others; and what sort of impact did St. Paul's and its volunteers have on the work crew—a dramatic one.
The questions continued, but they weren't out of line. By the time Jamie was finished talking with the group, she regretted her first impression. The girls were well-mannered, the parent sensitive to the information Jamie shared. It was nearly noon when the group went on their way. Jamie scanned the pews first, and then the perimeter of the chapel. She was thirsty, but the visitors came first. The week she trained as a volunteer Martha had made that clear.
“Look for fires to put out.” A tiny woman with a big mouth and a heart as vast as the Grand Canyon, Martha was particularly serious about this detail. “Look for the people breaking down and weeping, the ones sitting by themselves in a pew. Those are the ones you should approach. Just so they know you're there.”
No fires at the moment.
Aaron was across the room, talking to another pair of tourists. At least his conversations looked less intense than the one she'd had with Cindy. She trudged up the stairs to the volunteers' break room. An open case of water bottles sat on the table; she took one and twisted off the lid. Chairs lined the area, but she was tired of sitting. She leaned against the stone wall and looked up at the aged stained glass.
Funny, the way Martha had said it. Fires to put out. It was one more way Jamie was keeping Jake's memory alive. No, she didn't deal with flames and fire hoses. But she was putting out fires all the same. He would've been proud of her.
In fact, if he'd survived, he'd be right here at St. Paul's with her. All the more reason to volunteer as long as the chapel was open. It gave her purpose, and in that sense it wasn't only a way to keep Jake's m
emory, his sacrifice, alive.
It was a way to keep herself alive too.
Karen Kingsbury, One Tuesday Morning
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