A few days after the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Center, I laced up my husband’s filthy sneakers and headed out to get some new shoes for both of us. It was hard for me to think about taking clothes from a donation center instead of dropping them off. But I knew we should swallow our pride and accept the help New Yorkers were eagerly offering to the thousands of us directly affected by the attacks.
Brian’s shoes were two sizes too big for me but more comfortable than the flimsy flip-flops I had been wearing for the past few days. As I left my friend’s apartment, I noticed a disgusting odor and hurried past mountains of trash bags lining the sidewalks. But the smell remained even after I turned onto an empty side street. It was awful—something rancid, putrid.
Was it me? I had been wearing the same clothes for a couple of days and couldn’t remember when I had last showered. Personal hygiene had not seemed all that important lately. I stopped and sniffed myself and my clothes but couldn’t find the source.
Then I glanced down at Brian’s shoes, which were still covered in the sticky ash and dirt that had nearly smothered both of us on the morning of 9/11. We had fled our apartment, which was just six blocks away from the World Trade Center, after we watched a passenger jet slam into the South Tower.
After running 24 stories in a panic, we raced to Battery Park, where we thought we would be safe from the burning towers and the panicked crowds and the hundreds of emergency vehicles pouring into our neighborhood. But then the towers collapsed, covering us in ash and dirt and a sticky gunk that filled my nose and mouth, covered my clothes, and coated every pore of unprotected skin and every inch of the earth around me.
I sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and took off one of Brian’s shoes, gagging as I got a better whiff of the odor that had been following me all morning. It was the shoes! But they didn’t smell like stinky feet; they smelled like a dead animal.
Suddenly, I knew exactly what was causing the odor. No one had been able to fully explain what had been in the clouds of gunk that had coated us when the towers collapsed. But there had been thousands of people trapped in those buildings, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that traces of human remains were fouling Brian’s shoes.
The realization made me leap up from the curb and run the twelve blocks to the donation center. I begged the volunteer at the front counter for sneakers. “Anything you got. I’ll take anything.”
She waved me to the shoe corner, where I quickly grabbed a pair for each of us. I switched into my new shoes immediately then raced outside and tossed Brian’s old sneakers into a trash can. Shaking and near tears, I sat down on the curb, where I stayed for almost an hour, trying to regain my composure.
When we had been wandering around Battery Park on the morning of 9/11, Brian and I had focused on surviving and getting to a safe place. We had been so grateful to escape to New Jersey on one of the hundreds of boats that showed up to rescue the thousands who had been trapped on the tip of Manhattan by the burning, falling towers. Returning to the city the next day, we took refuge with my friend while we waited for our neighborhood to reopen.
Brian and I knew we were some of the lucky ones, but we were having a hard time figuring out how to get back up and move on with our lives. Our whole neighborhood had been declared off limits to everyone but emergency workers sifting through the rubble at Ground Zero. We had no idea when we might get back into our apartment—or even if our apartment still existed.
Sitting on the curb in my donated shoes I realized more clearly than ever that we would never go back to life the way it had been on September 10. But I wasn’t sure how we were going to move forward either. Even our shoes carried traces of horror.
We did return to our apartment a few weeks later, but that did not end our struggles with PTSD, survivors’ guilt, and doubts about the future. Although nominal Christians, Brian and I were not connected to any church, and our faith had been severely shaken by the events of 9/11.
How could we ever feel safe in a world that produces such evil? We were both unemployed and our bills were mounting, but applying for jobs and thinking about careers seemed pointless. How could we make goals or work toward a meaningful future when we knew everything could be taken away in an instant?
A friend encouraged me to apply for financial assistance at Redeemer Presbyterian Church, which had been handling donations from Christians all around the world. Those donations had poured into Redeemer in part because of the reputation of its pastor, the late Timothy Keller.
My reluctance to ask for help and my embarrassment at needing help dissolved when I encountered the quiet graciousness of the Redeemer staff handling the aid process. Their assistance led Brian and I to attend worship at Redeemer. Before long, we had officially joined the Redeemer community and were attending Bible studies and volunteering for ministries.
Eventually, both Brian and I joined the Redeemer staff, where our faith in Christ and our love and commitment to the church and to others continued to grow. More than two decades later, Brian still works full-time for Redeemer as its Chief Finance Officer.
In the same way New York cleared out the rubble and rebuilt itself, we slowly but steadily rebuilt our lives. And we intentionally and deliberately worked to mold our post-9/11 selves more completely in the image of Christ, so that we lived more fully “by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me” (Galatians 2:20).
Our lives were totally upended by the attacks, and the questions and concerns about the future overwhelmed us for a time. But it was in that dark hole of sorrow where God met us and led us to a new life where we live more fully in His light. I learned through my experiences that our brokenness is where He meets us in His strength. Through faith in Christ, we can live with the assurance that we don’t have anything to fear.
Although the attacks of 9/11 were uniquely destructive and horrific, every year thousands of people around the world find themselves unexpectedly fighting for their lives in war zones or after terrorist attacks or mass shootings or fires or hurricanes or other manmade or natural disasters. My journey into the darkness has given me a unique perspective and ability to walk with others who are unexpectedly flung onto a similar path.
I don’t have to walk a mile in a survivor’s shoes to know they are likely to carry memories too horrible to discuss. I know I won’t be able to answer their questions about why, how long, or what’s next. I can’t take away the nightmares or the panic attacks. But I can walk alongside them and reassure them that there is hope.
Twenty-three years after terrorists changed our world forever, I can attest to the fact that lives—like cities—can be rebuilt. More importantly, I can attest to the fact that lives can be redeemed through the work of Jesus Christ and his saving grace.
And I can share Jesus’ reassuring words to anyone who is stumbling in the darkness today: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33).