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Could I explain such a thing away? Of course. Should I? The workers answered those questions by naming the place and by returning to it, en masse, to reflect, to weep, and to pray despite the apparent danger. And I know why. Words almost fail me when I say this—but upon my first visit, standing there, looking down on those broken crosses, the rage subsided for a moment, and I felt a tremendous peace, the kind one describes as God's presence. Simply, quietly, in that still place, in the twisted structure, I was given a simple hiatus from rage—a reminder of sorts: I'm still here, I'm still in this place. Look at these things.

After that experience, even when the rage would wash over me, whenever I gazed past the people to the pile, I saw something new. Something about the skeletal girders still standing reminded me of the images I'd seen of ancient cathedrals standing broken but resolute during the world wars. The smoke, the play of light on the wreckage of steel pillars, the great, massive shadows cast, all spoke of some profound survival. And I didn't see broken beams anymore. I saw how the girders' joints created crosses wherever I needed to look.

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September (Web-only) 2002, Vol. 46