Rescue Workers
Lt. John F. Ginley, 37, Warwick, NY
You know that feeling you have when you’d look up in the sky and see a plane flying overhead? That feeling of awe at this great achievement. This huge and heavy piece of metal, floating weightless in the air, carrying people to or from their destinations – new memories and experiences; strangers meeting and for minutes or hours becoming traveling companions.
They were a metaphor for life, these experiences; soaring along your chosen flight path with strangers who have been chosen to travel with you, and loved ones or new adventures just beyond the gate. There was always a chance of danger, but the probability was greater that everything would be fine.
Those were the kinds of thoughts I had as a kid watching them fly over my house. I wondered what it would be like to be a pilot of one of those planes, with everyone counting on me to get them safely to where they were going. It was an instinct I took with me into my life as a firefighter. I wanted to lead and be counted on. I wanted my men to look at me with the trust that I would take care of them and get them home safely. It was a responsibility I wanted and took very seriously.
So, when 9/11 happened, it was something at the forefront of my mind: could I save these unfortunate people trapped in the burning buildings and promise to bring my men home safely? No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t promise anything, and I had to race toward almost certain death knowing that. But that is what we sign up for. My men didn’t expect me to shelter them nearly as much as I expected myself to. Was it a hero issue? No. It was a respect issue. These men and women spent long, hard hours away from their families, and I at least wanted to be able to promise them a return to their lives at the end of the day.
This was a world that meant a lot to me and I woke up every morning knowing that I may be called upon to help save it, or to help heal it, and the mystery of what each day held was part of what got me out of bed every day.
To my team, I want to say I’m sorry that I couldn’t shield you better. I’m sorry that I couldn’t promise you safety and I’m sorry that your families are without you now. I know this isn’t something you blame me for, but I wanted you to know that you are in my heart and I would love for you to have gone home that night, or to have still been around to work through the rubble.
I pray for your families and for you. I couldn’t have been more proud of all of you that day, and for every day since.
God bless every one of you.
