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It was before just before 6 a.m. in California when the first hijacked plane crashed into New York on September 11. Chaplain Ray Guinta was on his way to an early meeting when he heard the news. He felt he needed to be in New York.

Guinta is co-founder and chaplain of We Care Ministries, a non-profit organization providing counseling and assistance to victims of trauma since 1987. On September 11, Guinta and his We Care partner immediately discussed going to Ground Zero. But their policy was to be invited by an institution or group. "If God wanted us to go, we'd go," he says. "Something would open up."

A few days later, Guinta's bags were packed in case that call came. When it did, it was from a Manhattan church swamped with needs. Beginning on September 17, Guinta and fellow chaplains worked beside rescue workers for 68 days at the World Trade Center site. He chronicles his work there in his new book, God @ Ground Zero (Integrity). In the following excerpt, Guinta writes about the emotions and anguish present in the wreckage of the towers.

We found nothing my first night, no one. Dead or alive. It would be the same story for days. The futility was taking its toll. As one of the multiple-ton cranes was being repositioned, a dozen of us took a break. One of my chaplain team members, a man named Ryan, was standing beside a firefighter who had a faraway, detached look. I heard Ryan ask him how he was coping. Barely changing expression, the firefighter mentioned he had lost forty friends on September 11. Not colleagues, not acquaintances—friends.

"Your family must have been so happy to see you," Ryan responded.

A cloud passed over the firefighter's face. He had gone home to a big celebration, he answered, complete with a homemade banner created by his family. It had said in big red letters: "We are proud of you, Dad. You're our hero!" But he hadn't been able to handle it; he hadn't even let his wife hug him.

Ryan frowned. "Why?"

"I don't feel like a hero," he mumbled. "I didn't die."

Ryan shook his head. "But don't you see? We know you would have died-that you would have sacrificed yourself just as your friends did. That's why your family, all of us, know in our minds and hearts what you would have done for us."

That seemed to stir something in the firefighter; the faraway look vanished.

"Have you talked to your kids about this?" Ryan coaxed.

He shrugged. "My son keeps asking, but I can't talk about it. I just have to leave the room," the firefighter answered, chin out. "I have to be strong for him."

"But you have to talk to him."

"I can't—I have to be strong for him."

"What does being strong have to do with not talking to him?" Ryan finally asked.

"If I talk about it, I'll break down," he admitted. "And I've got to be strong in front of him. I can't let him see me cry"

"Who in the world told you that?"

The firefighter stared at the chaplain. "Are you saying … that it's okay for him to see me cry?"

"It's not just okay, it's essential. He needs to see his dad cry over this. He needs to learn from you how to grieve—that sometimes you've got to be strong enough to weep."

As if he had been given permission, the firefighter's eyes filled, and the tears spilled down his face. Then, from deep inside came a sob followed by another and yet another, his shoulders heaving as they continued coming. Ryan put a hand on his shoulder to comfort him, and the firefighter collapsed into his arms. Now the chaplain was weeping as well, and so were we all. Everyone. We were all hiding it, but we were all crying. It was a powerful, intimate scene, one that spoke of the experience like no other could.

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September (Web-only) 2002, Vol. 46