Remember (26 page)

He decided on neither. “Let’s pray. That’s the only way we’ll survive.”

Luke turned away from the TV, but John could see his actions were more out of obedience and respect than any desire to pray. “Whatever.”

Whatever?
Again fear rippled through John’s veins.
God, help my son. Don’t let this awful day drive a wedge between him and you. Between him and me.

The verse Kari had read earlier that day, the one she’d shared when he got home from work, flashed in his mind:
The Spirit who lives in you is greater than the spirit who lives in the world.
It was a promise John intended to cling to in the days to come.

He closed his eyes, returned his hand to Luke’s shoulder, and prayed aloud. “God, so often we don’t understand. And truthfully, Lord, this is one of those times.” John drew a slow breath. “All we can do is stand on your truth and believe it. You are a good God, the author of life. The evil that happened today grieves your heart too. So many lives, Father. So many. Lord, if Reagan’s father is among those who came home to you today, help us accept that. Help us be grateful that if he is gone from this earth, he is even now rejoicing with you.”

John paused. “And please help Luke. Help him take hold of his faith and hang on no matter what the storms of tomorrow bring. Let him know that you do hear his prayers, that you love him and care about him. Be with Reagan and her family, and comfort them with the reality of your promises. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

Countless times while Luke was growing up, John had met him here, and the two had prayed together. Always Luke had been at peace afterward, his eyes filled with the certainty that God was in control of whatever the issue at hand.

This time, though, Luke’s face was as angry and hard as it had been before. The moment the prayer was over, Luke’s eyes found the TV screen again. There was none of the usual “Thanks for praying, Dad,” no encouraging words or reassuring signs that Luke had even been listening during the prayer.

I can’t force it, God. I’m giving him to you.
John patted Luke on the back and stood to leave.

“Don’t let go of your faith, son. You need it now more than ever.”

Silence.

“Fine. Well . . . good night, Luke. I love you.”

John turned to go, and not until he was halfway out the door did Luke respond. “Good night.”

As John made his way down the hallway toward the room he shared with Elizabeth, he ached over the scene that had just taken place. And the fact that for the first time as far back as he could remember, his son hadn’t told him he loved him.

* * *

The morning of September 12 dawned bright and sunny, the weather having no clue that the nation was in mourning. When John awoke, his wife was already sitting in the chair near their bed, reading her Bible.

The moment he sat up and rubbed his eyes, she gave him a knowing look. “Something’s wrong with Luke.”

It was more a statement than a question, but John knew she wanted an answer all the same. He stretched and leaned back against their headboard. He didn’t want to worry her now, not when Luke was likely to wake up that morning and kick himself for ever doubting God. “He’s upset.”

Elizabeth lowered her chin. “He’s more than upset.”

“He’s mad.” John climbed out of bed and slipped on his terry cloth robe. “He asked God to spare Reagan’s father.” John headed for their bedroom door. “It’s the first time God’s answered the boy’s prayers with such a powerful no.”

“Are you worried?” Elizabeth’s Bible was still open on her lap.

John stopped in the doorway. He hoped his wife could feel his confidence across the room. “Yes. But I’ve given it to God. I’m sure Luke will have a better attitude today.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to do something.” He gave her a partial smile. “I’ll be right back.”

The whole way through the house, down the stairs, and into the garage, John couldn’t help but think about what Luke had said the night before. Maybe God
was
finished with the United States, fed up with America.

John found the box he was looking for and opened it. Carefully he removed the family’s heavy, hand-stitched American flag. He carried it outside to the pole in front of the house, attached it to a heavy nylon cord, and raised it ten feet above the ground.

Then he took three steps back and stared at it. The red, white, and blue flowed majestically in the morning breeze.

John stood there awhile, studying the flag and remembering the freedom it represented. Raising it today was a small gesture, but somehow it made him feel stronger, more hopeful.

No matter how bad the situation looked, no matter what people might think, regardless of the uncertainty of this moment in the history of their nation, John was convinced of two things.

God wasn’t finished with America yet.

And he wasn’t finished with Luke, either.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Two days had passed since the terrorist attacks, and the National Football League had made its decision. For the first time in its history, there would be no football that Sunday. The games were canceled as a way of honoring the thousands of people dead and missing.

Ryan Taylor was grateful.

Other teams might have been capable of playing football five days after the tragedy of September 11, but the teams in New York and Washington, D.C., certainly were not. It was all Ryan and the other coaches could do to keep the Giants focused on a light practice.

For the most part, none of the team members wanted to play football. They wanted to be out on the streets handing water bottles to firemen, passing out sandwiches, moving debris—whatever they could do to help.

The rescue effort was beyond anything Ryan had ever seen. A thick, pungent smoke hung across the city, and ash covered every exposed inch. But the area around Ground Zero had quickly become the scene of a massive coordinated effort as the wrenching process of removing, sorting, and disposing of layer upon layer of rubble got under way. As they searched for survivors, firefighters and volunteers faced the grim task of finding the remains of victims, some of whom had been their friends or coworkers.

Ryan and a handful of players had been allowed past security to a food-and-water station fifty yards from Ground Zero. What he saw from even that far away was unbelievable.

Off to the side of the main disaster site, in the midst of the rubble stood a perfect cross, formed by a section of steel beams that had fallen away from the rest of the structure. The cross towered fifteen feet high and stood strangely secure amidst the unstable ruins. That afternoon, as Ryan handed out water bottles and swapped somber conversation with weary rescue workers, he noticed the cross again. It had become something of a shrine. Flowers had been placed near its base, and small notes were tacked along the upright beam.

Dozens of chaplains made the rounds of volunteers. At any given time that afternoon when Ryan looked up he saw people praying together, hugging each other, stopped in the middle of the rescue effort to comfort and convince each other that life would go on.

Often he caught himself staring up at the gaping hole in the sky, the place where the twin towers had stood. He’d lived in New York only a short time, but he’d quickly come to use the World Trade Center as a navigating landmark; his destinations within the city had been either on one side of the towers or the other. Now, though, nothing but deep blue sky marked the spot. So intrinsic were the buildings to the New York skyline that it was impossible for him to look up and not see the towers still standing, if only in his memory.

He would call Kari tonight and tell her what it was like down here. Since the attacks, she’d been on his mind even more, if that were possible. Life was short, and death too often quick and senseless. Tim’s murder had taught them that much, and now this. . . . News shows were talking about further attacks, biological warfare, chemical weapons, nuclear threats. There were no guarantees any of them would live to see the morning.

Yet here he was in New York City, devoting his life to a game—a game that had done nothing but stand in the way of the life he might have shared with Kari. What was he doing here when the only woman he’d ever loved was alone in Bloomington? What sense was there in that?

Ryan had no answers for himself, except for the fact that he’d made a commitment to the Giants and needed to see it through. He stooped and brushed a layer of ash off an unopened crate of water bottles. As he did, he remembered his father’s words, advice he’d spoken back when Ryan was a senior in high school, looking for a part-time job.

“Honor your commitments, son. If you take a job, give them your best. A man who honors God in the small things will honor him throughout life.”

There was no question Ryan would honor the commitment he’d made to the Giants. Not just because it was the right thing to do. He loved his work, after all. Coaching in the NFL had been his dream ever since he hung up his jersey. But somehow the events of the past week had changed his dreams, made them seem shallow and unimportant. In fact, they’d made it painfully clear that his heart wasn’t in New York at all.

It was a thousand miles away in Bloomington, Indiana.

Ryan slid his thumb beneath a layer of plastic and pulled the bottles from the crate. He coughed hard and looked up. The smoke was thicker than before.

“Hey, stranger.” Ryan felt a tap on his shoulder, and he turned around to see Landon Blake.

“Landon . . .” Ryan wasn’t sure what to say. The man was covered in ash, sweat dripping from his forehead. The pain in his eyes was stark. It told Ryan that however bad Ground Zero looked from this distance, the view from up close was unspeakably worse.

Ryan reached out and shook Landon’s hand. “Kari told me you’d be here. I sort of doubted we’d run into each other.”

Landon gestured toward the makeshift station where Ryan was working. “Everyone knows this is where the Giants are helping out.” He wiped his brow, smearing ash along his forehead. “I figured you’d be here.”

Ryan handed him a water bottle. “You and I are both praying men.” He gazed across the disaster scene, then back at Landon. “But right now it’s hard to know where to begin.”

“I know.” Landon set his work boot on a nearby chair and leaned on his knee. “The smell of death and sulfur—it’s awful. Suffocating. Like hell itself.”

There was a pause, and Landon lifted the water bottle, tipped it straight back, and drained it. Ryan grabbed a wrapped sandwich from the table and handed it to him. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

Landon nodded. “Thanks.” He took the sandwich, pulled off the wrapper, and ate nearly half of it in a single bite. Despite the smoke, the sun was bright at that hour of the afternoon, and Landon squinted toward the rescue effort. “There’s still a chance, you know. Jalen’s strong.” He clenched his jaw. “If anyone can survive this, he can.”

Ryan stared at the ashes beneath their feet. What could he say to that? And how long would it be before the firefighters working at Ground Zero were resigned to the probability that they were looking for remains and not survivors? Ryan breathed in sharply through his nose and met Landon’s eyes. “Is there anything I can do?”

Landon tossed his empty bottle and sandwich wrapper into the trash and took a step back toward the rescue effort. “Pray for a miracle.” He waved and started to leave.

“Wait.” Ryan jogged the few steps that separated them. “Was Jalen a believer?”

Landon hesitated. “I’m not sure. He knew about the Lord.”

“Let’s pray now. Is that okay?”

“Yeah.” Landon removed his helmet. “Thanks.”

Ryan put his hand on Landon’s shoulder, and both men bowed their heads. There, with rescue workers scrambling to and from support stations, with cranes and dump trucks making their way down the ash-covered caverns of Manhattan, with the stench of ash and smoke a moment by moment reminder of the devastation around them, they prayed for Jalen.

They prayed for a miracle—one way or another. That the rescue crews would find him safe amidst the rubble. And if not, that Jesus would find him.

Safe amidst the streets of heaven.

* * *

For the first time that fall, Professor Hicks was making sense.

Since the semester began, Luke had dreaded his advanced communications class. The professor often used the time to express his opinions about a number of his pet subjects—anything from the evils of commerce to the dangers of “religious fanaticism.”

At first, Luke had actually agreed with some of what the professor said. Commerce could at times be the cause of a troubled society. And religious extremism had certainly caused heartache and misunderstanding throughout history.

But as the semester got under way, Luke quickly began to understand that to the professor,
commerce
meant any kind of corporate business, and
religious fanatic
primarily referred to any conservative Christian.

Professor Hicks had never said as much. In fact, he had made a point not to tell students exactly where he stood—he said it was important to maintain “objectivity.” But he revealed his opinions through offhand remarks and sly digs—even through snide comments he’d written in the margins of the first project Luke had prepared for the class. In fact, the professor seemed so obviously biased—and his views so different from Luke’s—that Luke had expected every class period to be a struggle.

Until now. Now, as Luke sat listening, the professor’s words seemed to line up with thoughts Luke didn’t even know he had.

In light of what happened September 11, Professor Hicks had introduced a semester-long assignment: Pair up with someone in the class, and create a class presentation arguing for or against the existence of God.

It was Monday, nearly a week after the attacks, and the professor was pacing along the front of the classroom, explaining his reasons for the assignment.

“You may have noticed how popular the American flag has become in the past week.” He reached the far end of the classroom, paused, and smiled in their direction. “Many people want to say God is bringing our country together, uniting us in our greatest hour of need.”