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Gordon MacDonald has been pastor of churches in suburban Boston and in New York City. He has written books on the nature of ministry in the modern world—including Ordering Your Private World (Nelson). But he experienced a new dimension to ministry when he and his wife, Gail, were given security clearances to join the Salvation Army in caring for the people removing debris and bodies after the terrorist attack on New York City. The following are journal excerpts from their last few days there.

He clearly understood that.

He went on to tell her that life as a policeman was terribly discouraging; before coming into the site yesterday, he dealt with four gang murders in another part of the city. She asked him what he really wanted to do.

"Become a teacher" was his answer. She encouraged him to think about the possibility that this was a "call."

Some of his buddies came to get him because it was time to go into the pit. He asked them for a few minutes and turned back to Gail and asked her for her name. He wanted to come back and talk some more. She prayed for him and sent him off.

Many men are coming to us with blistered hands and terribly sore feet. The only thing that seems to take the smells of the pit off the hands of workers is alcohol, and Gail and the other Salvation Army workers spent a lot of time washing hands with alcohol and then rubbing in hand cream. Eyes are terribly bloodshot and sore from impurities in the air. So they wash out eyes. As Gail said, "I'm learning how to do a lot of new things."

Father matthew, my Franciscan friend, stops by our site often now. Late in the day, we met inside the pit just feet away from the bucket brigades. He looked absolutely spent, and I realized that the unmarried clergy of the Catholic tradition don't have the companionship that I have with Gail.

I said, "Father, you look drained. You are praying for everyone. Who's praying for you?" He looked at me as if the question had never been asked before. I saw tears. So I said, "How about one of the blessings you've been giving everyone else?" He nodded, and I gave it to him. He's been giving the last rites to body parts.

I spent a large part of my day in the pit with buckets of water. There is a well-coordinated effort now going on. The men move in, clear out the manageable debris.

Then suddenly the shout goes up for a dog to sniff out a body. The dog comes in with little sock-like pads on the paws, jumps around, and finally locates what everyone smelled.

Men go to their knees and gently uncover the final debris and remove what only faintly appears to be a body or, more likely, a part. It is put in a body bag and evacuated to the morgue.

As I talk to and pray for firefighters, it suddenly occurs to me that I have not touched a man whose shoulders aren't enormous. They are, for the most part, tough men. But they have deep hearts.

One firefighter said to me, "My sister is a real Christian. And she's been on my back because I've backslidden. This thing has really wakened me up. I've got to stop the backsliding."

I suggested we could put a stop to the backsliding right then and there. He thought that was a great idea, so I prayed, "Help my friend, John, to cut out the backsliding. Give him a new heart; help him to make you proud."

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November 12 2001, Vol. 45, No. 14