On the street with countless New Yorkers as the sun disappeared into falling ash—“Nicole Lovejoy” was running for her life.
Amid the confusion, the frightened chaos, the screaming commotion, she had no choice but to flee in the opposite direction and pray that nothing worse was coming.
She had been late for work that morning. So instead of being in her office next door, she stood on the street watching the planes hit the Twin Towers. Standing baffled before the bull run began.
A crystal clear sky was instantly consumed with smoke, a swirling fog of paper, debris, ash sucking up every molecule of fresh air. Nicole couldn’t see but feet in front of her. She just knew what direction she had to go.
The city began shutting down faster than she could blink. The subways, the ferries, the tunnels, everything stopped as if frozen in time. How would she get home? How would she find the one place she felt safe?
Then she heard a voice. “Do you need a ride?”
An unfamiliar woman was leaning out her car window to offer help. Nicole said, “Yes, I need to get home to Queens.”
“I’ll give you a ride,” the other woman said. So Nicole got in the car. No pause. No questions.
“Hi, I’m Nicole.”
“My name is Nicolle too. Nicolle Lovejoy.”
“What? Are you joking? That’s my name.”
“Your last name is also Lovejoy? What are the odds?!”
~
It was days after 9/11 when I finally got through to Nicole by phone to hear her story. I was sitting on a park bench in Newton Center, relieved to know that my former roommate and best friend from college was alive and unharmed. But I knew, especially for her, that our emotional and spiritual recovery would be long and difficult.
One thing is certain, I thought. We are all in this together.
All of a sudden, everywhere I went, I heard people talking about it. And I felt comfortable joining in the conversation, even though I didn’t know them. That’s not something us Northerners do lightly. But we all had a story to share about that day—where we were as it happened, those we knew at Ground Zero, stories we had heard of survivors…or those that tragically died…
That’s the way it should be, I remember thinking. We all lived in the same nation, experienced an act of unprecedented terrorism on U.S. soil. This was our home, our citizens, our police officers and firemen, our friends, our family members, our children. We should be united by this deep bond we share, this deep grief we bear, this deep hope we should now declare. Recovery should be a family affair.
But as I sat on that park bench, I watched people in cars drive by me who thought only of how fast they could get to their destination, despite cutting other cars off in traffic or honking their horns in exasperated patience. I saw people walking by me who were lost in their own imaginings, never mind a passing smile or greeting to others on the path. It doesn’t feel right, Lord.
It didn’t take long for all of us to return to our normal routine, our regular habits, our casual oblivion. For a few brief shining moments, we are all the “Us” against the “Them,” a nation standing against terrorists, those who intended to harm and haunt us with fear and memories of our sadness.
But now…we were back to the “us” and “them” of everyday life. “Us” are the people in my car; “them” are the ones in the car cutting me off! “Us” are the members of my favorite sports team; “them” are our fiercest rivals!
I was a drone, too. An angry drone, but a drone nevertheless, willing to choose my own version of “us” and forget any “them” and their feelings, their dreams, their purpose, their pain.
If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame we see them in.
– Frederick Buechner from “Whistling in the Dark”
I had to turn my anger into love. It was the only answer, the only way I could “add to [my] faith, goodness.” I had to look at my neighbors and see beyond, behind their eyes. I had to see them as if I were looking at myself—my pain, my past, my potential—as if they not only shared the same tragedy, but they also shared…my name.
By the way, Nicolle Lovejoy, if you’re out there, thank you for taking care of my friend.
The Art of Choosing True Life 