Strangers in the Park

Some stories are meant to be told and retold – to remind us of the most important things – the things we are most likely to forget in the ordinariness of our daily busy lives. When the extraordinary happens we celebrate – in story, song, through the arts. This is my celebration of a time when I saw God move in an extraordinary and a compassionate way – and it reminds me always to be on the lookout for what he’s doing, everywhere I go, in everyone I meet.

Our training session ended for the day and three of my colleagues and I decided to drive down to Liberty Park to see the Tribute in Light at Ground Zero. We were at a retreat center in the mountains of Northern N.J. at the end of March 2002 – it would be our last chance to see the Tribute.

The night was wild. Winds whipped the snow every which way and it was cold – even for someone who lives just below the Canadian border! We had to take twisted wet mountain roads down to the freeway, and felt a little nervous. We’d need to at least drive the speed limit in order to get to the Park before closing – which we thought was 11PM. My friends asked me to pray for us before we pulled out of the drive.

Earlier that morning I had been encouraged to pray very specifically by something I’d read in my time alone with God. So, as I prayed for safety for us, I added a prayer that God would give us a divine appointment – that He would cross our path with someone who needed a word or touch from Him. Frankly, I felt quite confident praying that way, because I was picturing a park full of hundreds of grief-stricken people! All four of us said “Amen,” and we were on our way.

We arrived at Liberty Park a little after 10PM. No one else was there, much to our surprise! The Statue of Liberty stood off to our right – an oasis of light in the darkness and swirling snow. She was lovely. The Tribute appeared in front of us, and we fell silent – solemn… Sad. The parking lot recommended to us by friends from the City was closed, so we turned down another road in the strangely deserted park. At the intersection of these roads a sign had been blown over face down by the wind.

Not very far along the road, a long white police van pulled out in front of us. This was a welcome sight, because we weren’t sure where to leave the car. The officer rolled down his window as we rolled down ours, and we asked him for his suggestion. He suggested that we leave – the park closed at 9PM! We should have known, he said, because we’d driven right past the “PARK CLOSED – DO NOT ENTER” sign! (The sign that had blown over in the wind.) We apologized and explained that we’d not seen the sign, and asked if we could just take a couple of pictures and then leave – we’d come a long way… The officer very graciously gave us permission to take a few pictures and then leave immediately, and showed us where to park.

The wind was powerful, whipping across the water. We talked quietly – reverently. The Tribute was beautiful, two great beacons of light stretching far past the lights of Manhattan into the heavy clouds. Gerry set up his tripod in the dark, fumbling with frozen fingers to get the proper lens on his camera. All of us shivered in the cold.

Gerry snapped a number of photos and each time the snowflakes swirling in the air around him were lit by the flash like miniature fireworks. My mind holds that image as clearly as the image of the twin beacons of light – frozen moments – poignant memories.

As the camera was being put away, another police van pulled alongside us. This time I thought we were in trouble – that the officer we’d spoken with had forgotten to let the others know he’d given us permission to take photos. As the young officer in the van rolled down his window, I thought he was going to tell us we were trespassing. Instead, he called out to us with laughter, “This is a strange way to be spending Spring Break!”

We laughed and walked over to the van to explain that we were just leaving. Instead of rolling up his window and driving away, he began to tell us his story.

On the morning of September 11 he had been sitting right where we were standing, supervising a detail of prisoners as they worked in the park. He heard a plane roar in, deafeningly close, and looked up to see it strike the first Tower. Immediately he called his mother’s office – she worked across from the Towers – and told her colleagues to evacuate the building no matter what anyone else said – he felt the act had been deliberate. Half of her building collapsed later when the Towers fell.

He told us of the terror everyone felt when the second plane hit and all went black. Over the radio they began to hear of the Pentagon strike and the President being evacuated. Literally, they (Police and prisoners) thought they were witnessing the end of the world. The prisoners begged to be released. He handcuffed them, loaded them into the van and drove them to the nearest holding facility. Three hours after the first plane struck, he was at Ground Zero helping to comb through the rubble for survivors.

He was still having nightmares, he told us. Describing in detail the horrific sights of that day, he told us that many people like him were beginning to break down. We could understand why. Among other things, he had pulled the torso of a young woman from the wreckage! In my heart and mind I felt an overpowering urge to pray for this man. This had to be the “Divine Appointment!” Especially when he revealed that this was his last night at the park… And we shouldn’t even have been there at all! If the “PARK CLOSED – DO NOT ENTER” sign had not blown over on its face, we wouldn’t have been.

After what seemed like quite a while (standing as we were in the cold), he paused for breath… My colleague Joel took the moment to ask his name. I’ll call him “Bob.” At that moment I asked, “Bob, you have been through so much, do you mind if we pray for you?” His whole demeanor relaxed and he acted as if we’d just offered him a generous gift. As I prayed for him, Joel silently prayed for me – that the words I prayed would not be mine, but God’s – just for Bob.

When I finished praying, Bob asked us to wait a minute while he drove back to his office to get us maps of the park. He told us enthusiastically that we should come back “when the park is open!” Just as he left us, the Tribute shut off for the night – it was 11PM. We walked back to the car – by this time absolutely FROZEN… and waited for him to return. When he pulled up behind us, Gerry got out to take the maps from him – but he came to us instead. He came to where I was sitting and I opened the car door… he handed me a hard hat. “I wore this that morning,” he said, “the 11^th – as I was trying to help find survivors… I want you to have it. I’m ready to part with it now.” I was overwhelmed. As he walked back to his van I thought desperately that I wanted to give him something, too, but I had nothing with me!

I slapped at my coat pockets – I don’t know what I thought I might find except used tissues – but I hit something small, a tin of mints my son had given me for my birthday just over a week before. They were mints he’d bought at a Christian bookstore, and I knew they had scripture written on the inside cover of the tin. I was just going with the flow of what was happening, and figured the Scripture would somehow have to be just the word Bob needed to have from God, so I got out of the car and ran back to the van just as Bob was getting in. “Bob,” I said, “I don’t have anything to give you like what you’ve just given me, but this tin of mints is precious to me because my son gave it to me for my birthday – there are words written on the inside of the tin that I want you to be sure to read.” Bob took the tin from me and we parted. I never saw him again, but I have never forgotten him.

God had so obviously set the whole thing up! We celebrated in the car and told our story to our colleagues when we returned to the retreat center a little after midnight.

The scriptures on the inside of that treasured tin of mints? Romans 8:38-39 “For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

A Little Wind

A Little Wind

by Beverly Ewart 

A little wind wafts a seed over plains

and tickles clouds until they rain.

A little wind can make the sun come out again.

A little wind will help the seed to grow,

will drop it in the perfect hole,

then fly away to brush the earth from pole to pole.

And when there's snow, that wind will circle back;

unseen, the frosted soil attack,

and warm the frozen ground to make the brown husk crack.

The pale flicker will become a seedling,

and then a tender stalk of green,

and then, the mighty oak – a majestic being!

The heart is stirred by just a little wind.

A little hope stirred will begin

a mighty prayer of faith to move that oak again...

Like our God, we are compelled by chaos

to harbor those storm-tossed,

and make a shelter in the desert for the lost.

The wind that brought to us this mighty oak,

that holy Wind we now invoke

to transplant our shade to where there is no hope;

to carry to our neighbor's empty hands

this fruitful tree, our mighty friend,

to be a shelter from the storm in that dry land.

So, let our praying move the Wind of God

to lift out rocks and break the sod -

let that Wind move us to commend you to the Lord.

A little wind will bring a little rain

to soften earth and ease the pain

of that transplanted oak on the barren plain.

And great will be the fruit of that great tree!

A little wind may blow to me

the news of just how rich the harvest comes to be.

Toad

Toad

by Beverly Ewart

Almost excremental,

in appearance, elemental,

hopping hazardously before my mower blade;

a clump of lumpy brown

so far below me, on the ground:

Fragile-skinned amphibian making for the shade.

I shut off the mower

and do all that's in my power

to search for a refuge from destruction for the toad.

A person looking on

laughs at the antics on my lawn,

but I revere a creature who looks at life through eyes of gold.

Unauthorized Vehicle

by Beverly Ewart

KEEP OFF MERIDIAN, the sign says.

Every car following car following

 car obliquely salutes with OBEDIENCE.

The sun warms our red van

  and I have

    meridian dreams.

I WOULD stop

if I saw a turtle

  or a stranded cat....

... My mind wanders all over that meridian,

             where there might be money in the grass,

or a smooth snake disappearing around a bush,

   or a note to someone, flown there

      from someone's dash out an open window.

UNAUTHORIZED VEHICLE - my mind...

  I can't keep off

   meridians.

Faith

by Beverly Ewart

Over the side,

out into the squall –

sliding down swells

toward the voice and the call.

Behind is the boat,

tossed about on the waves;

inside or out,

we must choose to be brave.

But the weight of these worries

and the weight of the flesh

break the sea’s surface tension

on the waves’ foamy crests.

Suddenly sinking

and soaked by our doubts,

we cry out in despair

‘til someone pulls us out.

Upward the pull;

the weight is removed –

we’ve been enlightened

by the strength of God’s love.

Buoyed by hope

and the grip of God’s hand,

we purposely, weightlessly

stride toward dry land.

A PEN IN THE HAND OF THE ALCHEMIST

By

Beverly Ewart

In the middle ages people were fascinated by the idea of alchemy – of transforming common materials into gold. My own grandfather, Anthony Nerad, was an alchemist of sorts, being the manager of the team that developed man-made diamonds for General Electric. The first diamonds the team made successfully, they made from peanut shells!

My grandfather Tony was a well-known and respected Chemical Engineer, but he was not skeptical about the magic and power of story. He introduced me to the world of literature. I found it in his living room and, like Lucy in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, by C.S. Lewis, I found it in his attic. It was in the attic that I became acquainted with L.M. Montgomery, Louisa May Alcott, Rudyard Kipling and Thornton W. Burgess. It was in the attic that I found the ancient family Bible, that Tony had set aside, but with which he found he could not entirely part. As a child I didn't understand that Bible, but I was transfixed by its strange words and brilliant illustrations (which included a unicorn that looked suspiciously like a rhinoceros). In the attic of my grandfather, the scientist, I found magic.

I do believe in magic. In Alchemy. I believe that writing is a kind of alchemy - the transformation of the infinite (ideas) to the finite (words). I suppose this is more like changing diamonds to peanut butter. The glorious ineffable to something more utilitarian. But the glory is not lost in the transformation when done by a skilled wordsmith.

The written word. Ideas made flesh. The ephemeral and multi-dimensional caught in time and space and set down for countless minds to engage. (For more sublime thoughts than mine on this concept, please read Dorothy Sayers' The Mind of the Maker.) This is an alchemy that we have practiced since the first human made an indelible mark on a tree or the face of a sandstone cliff. It is an alchemy that morphs with the centuries, yet the magic is timeless. “The Word became flesh...” Ideas we can see and touch, accept or reject. The Finite Infinite, the Imminent Transcendent. Ideas that have been forged into catalysts for good or evil. The pen is the sword... or the scalpel. From the pen ideas are transformed into perfume, poison, or anesthetic. Powerful, powerful magic. The power to seduce or set free; to change a mind, a plan, or a century. Alchemy.

At the end of his life, my grandfather the scientist returned to the Source of his science. The Word became flesh for him in spirit and in truth. The shell that he had become was transformed into something scintillating, ineffable, and timeless. The Word was not lost on him.

Angels

 

Angels

By Beverly Ewart

 

At night the angels guard our trust,
apparent in the morning when we wake;
the imprint of their wings lies on the frost

sparkling with the light that shines on us
through each brittle windowpane.
At night the angels guard our trust,

covering our faith through gathering dark,
to be on the ready should it wane ~
the imprint of their wings lies on the frost.

Should the night bring dreams of fear or angst?
Grim forces the angel hosts restrain.
At night the angels guard our trust,

all demonic powers they'll accost!
The glory of the Lord is their refrain,
the imprint of their wings lies on the frost.

For love of God these beings surround us,
hovering guardians of flesh and flame;
at night the angels guard our trust -
the imprint of their wings lies on the frost.