I never wanted to have any part of working in a restaurant. I am bad at remembering orders and I don’t like when people yell at me (which happens in restaurants sometimes). But when I stood behind the steam table serving pasta, salad, meat, bread and dessert for 6-8 hours as dirty, tired, traumatized workers streamed in, I can’t explain it: I was right where I was meant to be. But it was when I went on ‘lunch’ for 15 minutes around 10pm that I felt God at work.
I met Pete, one of the people who was on-scene 20 minutes after the Towers fell. He was as New York as they came, right down to the accent (though he said I had one). Part of the Dept. of Sanitation (DSNY), he had come down to see if he could help, and hadn’t left since. He took me and Vickie around the site, telling us stories of people’s heroism. For as tough as he was, he was also humbled. We could see the brokenness in him, just like the men and women who came into the basement, ate their meals, sometimes traded stories and pins with us, and then curled up in one of the pews to sleep. Trading pins and patches was a big thing up there. It was a way of connecting with people and remembering who you had talked with.
And Mary was right about not feeling like we needed to talk. Just sitting there, we all learned, one-on-one with one of the workers or police, and letting them talk, was like a healing balm for them. I don’t know about my coworkers there, but I wasn’t able to say anything anyway. I had no words. I had been in the pit, but still hadn’t experienced what they had to, every day for who knew how many more days.
At the time, I had felt useless. At the time, I had felt like talking would help things. But when they got up to leave, they would profusely thank us for sharing dinner with them, that they felt so much better. I didn’t know what we had done, but recently in a class I learned that we become valuable when we listen.
I also learned so much about showing my faith. It wasn’t talking about the bible, or attending church, that made a difference in people’s lives, but doing the act of what Jesus would have done, humbly and often silently: serving food. Cleaning floors and tables. Squeegeeing marinara sauce and ricotta cheese out of the back carpet of someone’s car. Listening to stories of pain and fear so that someone’s load could be lightened.
And seeing a church building, which is sometimes looked upon as intimidating, or as a symbol of ‘religion’ actually become Jesus’ hands and feet, being used to feed and comfort the hurting, giving a haven to those in distress as they left the horror of their jobs for an hour or so.
The church basement was dirty from boots, messy with paper plates, food and gear, but sometimes when real, deep work is being done, a mess comes with it, and then healing.
There is so much more I can put on paper, and hundreds and hundreds of photographs, but there isn’t space or time right now. I also want to keep some people’s stories private. Pete went through a lot more later, as many people did, but I am glad to say he is still doing well.
We couldn’t do anything to prevent the tragedy that brought us up to New York, but as people of faith, we could be there to give comfort.
“Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our tribulation, that we may be able to comfort those who are in any trouble, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God.” -2 Corinthians 1:3-4
