I was not sure what to write but I prayed about it and I hope in some small way this helps others understand the New York experience.

It’s 2:30 am on a Wednesday morning and I cannot sleep because days and nights run together. Sitting here in Cincinnati on my front porch, I gaze up at the sky and see nothing but Ground Zero.

I have been home now for three weeks, but only in the physical sense. Ironically, my Vietnam experiences are now more than just haunting memories. The inability to describe the horror rings true once again as I think of the faces and the pain. The firefighters, the police officers, the victims’ families...it goes on and on. I feel the wind hit my face as I sit on the swing and recall the distinct odor which a combat veteran never forgets. Yet I had to experience it once again in lower Manhattan.

After eight grueling 12-14 hour days as a chaplain and the only Catholic priest around, I remember driving 700 miles back to Cincinnati, yet mentally never leaving Ground Zero. I felt I just could not leave. How could I? Just as in Vietnam, I could see the pain in their eyes, the tears on their faces, and feel the hurt in their hearts as I held them in my arms.

Each of them had a journey to share. I look up at the stars and try to make sense of it all and my mind shifts over to the young woman who I held in my arms as she cried, telling me she lost her husband on their first anniversary.

The police officer, eyes so red with tears, who told me how he lost his partner when they were both racing up the stairs in the South Tower. A supervisor called him down to the main exit to help civilians. He could hear her scream when the tower collapsed. He asked me, “What do I tell her children?” Please tell me Father, why her and not me?

The husband who lost his wife, who was a stewardess on the jet which hit the South Tower. He asked me how to help his son, who happened to be home from school and watched the tragedy unfold on TV. The firefighter who refused to leave Ground Zero because he lost two sons, one a firefighter, the other a police officer.

What do we say, or do now, to make sense of it? There are so many stories, I find they run together just like the tears on their faces. Fate at times plays a bitter role in who lives or dies, similar to Vietnam. No wonder I can’t sleep.

I reach for answers and there are none, yet I am thankful for my three years of experience with hospice as a chaplain, and my 10 years of experience as a pastoral counselor. It has helped me keep my feet on the ground and carry the message of hope to all I could touch. It did not make a difference who I was talking to, whether it was the mayor of New York, or the vice president of the United States. I knew what had to be done and I did it. No time for reflection or collecting my thoughts. It was clear they needed someone with the spirit and belief that everything was going to be all right.

You learn quickly that many of those crying for help are in different psychological stages. Therefore, it is not what you say as much as what you do. With God’s grace, I gave them my best shot, with words or with my eyes, of “What a wonderful world it is because we believe in each other, in our faith, and because we will be stronger than ever!”

In the world of hospice we have a similar journey. Our patients and their families struggle to find the answers. For how many times do we make a midnight visit to a family of a loved one who has died, maybe at a young age, and feel the family’s pain? We listen, we believe, and we comfort with our eyes, arms and hearts.

It is not what I visibly saw at Ground Zero, for I have seen much worse in Vietnam. It’s what I heard and felt. But we reach down into the deepest part of our soul and the gentle touch and warm smile tells them softly, “We will walk with you and help shoulder your pain.”

I feel so alone trying to figure out what to do with all these feelings, knowing that I’m going back in six months. I know I need to debrief myself, but I don’t have enough time before then.

I wonder when I return if I will see any of the two to three hundred people who I blessed, or will I still be climbing up in the ruins to bless the remains? Will I still be the only chaplain?

What happened to the countless number of small crosses I blessed? Did the victims’ families receive them like I was told they would? Do the families know they were made from the ruins of the tower?

Sounds similar to hospice life, doesn't it?