“A plane just crashed into the Twin Towers,” Sister Mary Frances said. Her eyes were wide, and she was breathing hard. She had just returned from dropping Sister Mary Michael at the Newark airport. “It’s terrorism,” she added. 

Inwardly I rolled my eyes. It was just like her to get excited and see plots and malice. Why did she have to get so dramatic? It might have been a tragic accident. Horrible either way.

We went back to the convent and turned on the TV. There we watched in shock as the second plane plowed into the second tower. Mary Frances had been right. 

Soon we learned that Sister Mary Michael had been on the runway and saw the second plane hit. She was stuck at the airport, unable to travel or to return home. Security had locked everyone into place.

Our town had lots people who commuted to Manhattan, many who worked in those towers. We began to pray, to cry, to watch over and over. The feeling of helpless grief was everywhere. No one could sleep. In the convent we prayed for the dead, for those still trapped in the rubble, for the families, for the workers. 

I sat in the chapel and talked to God. I didn’t blame Him, but I needed to hang onto something. I ranted into the silence, “What the hell do we do with this, God? Where are you in this?” I tried to sleep and go on as though things were normal. We continued our daily round of prayers and worship, five times a day in the chapel. We ate our meals and did our work. It helped to ground me, but wasn’t enough to shut out the horror.

As the work began to find survivors and remove the dead with dignity, it seemed that everyone everywhere wanted to help. People drove across the country to bring supplies to the workers and pray nearby. Religious leaders of all faiths enlisted. I saw God at work in all the love. God didn’t engineer the attack, but love flowed into the broken places. 

I wanted to be part of it. I wanted to help but couldn’t see how. I had no training, no experience. I had been a university professor just nine months before; I didn’t know anything about pastoral care. I was a new nun, barely used to my clothes. I prayed, mostly to do my part when I couldn’t do much else.

One day a priest, friend of the community, came to see us. He’d been working at Ground Zero with the Red Cross. They had organized a program of chaplaincy for the respite centers. Several large hotels right by the site had become centers for the workers to eat and rest between shifts. He told us stories about the horrible, powerful work going on there.

“They’re looking for more chaplains,” he said. Chaplains with certification were given brief training on the crisis and then sent to those who wanted to talk and pray.

I went to the Superior. 

“You’re just a novice,” she told me. “You have no training. Besides, we don’t send Sisters out alone.”

“Sister Eleanor wants to go too. I can go with her,” I said. “She hasn’t been trained either. They’ll train us there.”

She looked at me. She knew it would be good for us to minister there. She had a powerful pull toward service herself. I had no doubt she would have volunteered if she weren’t Superior.

“OK,” she said. “Go see if this is something you should do.”

That was it. Because I was a nun, the Red Cross assumed I had training. Off I went with Eleanor for a one-day course. At the end of the day, I was assigned to one of the respite centers once a week. I was given a hard hat in case I needed to go into “the pit.” Sister Margaret Clare took a photo of me and Eleanor in our hard hats and veils.

The next week I took the train into the city toward Ground Zero. As we rumbled across the Meadowlands of New Jersey, the absence of the Twin Towers was disorienting. Then the train dove under the Hudson River and moved into Penn Station. I caught the subway south as far as it could go. It wasn’t as far as it had been before the attack; the subway had been destroyed at the stop I would have taken.

When I came up from the subway, the smell was everywhere. Long before I saw the destruction, I smelled it. It was partly smoke, partly dust, but there was something else: the smell of burning, rotting flesh. Deep below ground, the fires still raged, and bodies were consumed. 

Everyone knew what it was, though we didn’t talk about it. I didn’t even admit it to myself, though I knew. Everywhere, people looked stunned, their faces shuttered against the grief. I looked at them as I passed. Some looked at me. Seeing my habit, they would try to smile. I’d smile back, my eyes sending a different message: I hurt with you. I love you. Then I’d keep going on my way.

Walking down Broadway, I passed St. Paul’s Chapel which was being used as another respite center. On the wrought-iron fence, people wrote on sheets volunteers had hung out for them. Below on the sidewalk were piles of flowers and photos of loved ones either missing or dead. Teddy bears and candles bore testimony and kept vigil. All around the fence, people stood reading flyers, hoping to see a familiar face. It was October by now and no one really expected to find lost ones. They stood in longing and grief, hanging onto those smiling faces on the flyers. I saw that God was here, holding us all in the pain and beauty of love. My heart opened. I felt the grief I had stopped-up in the past weeks. Rather than locking me in, as it had in the past, pain opened me to the love that defined this place.

Finally, I arrived at the Downtown Marriott, right by Ground Zero. Three thousand people died across the street, and the hotel windows were still intact? It felt unreal.

Entering was a relief of sorts, a mirage of normalcy. The air conditioning system reduced the smell, even with the gathering workers. But as I went up the escalator, the veneer of normal gave way to dislocation. The hotel ballroom was set up as a rest area with rows of recliners facing TV screens. In the hallway outside the ballroom, a kitchen crew dispensed breakfast. On other floors, stocks of supplies waited for the men: soap, cloths, shoes to replace burnt soles from working on the still-hot site.

It was a sharp contrast to the convent. The first thing I noticed was the trauma and exhaustion that hung in the air. The love at St. Paul’s was absent; in its place was numbness, people slogging through a hellish job. The sheer masculinity of the place hit me. The only women were hotel staff and chaplains. And the men were not conventioneers in suits or tourists in comfortable clothes. They were men who worked with shovels and picks and drills, covered with dust and grime. I felt my difference here even more than on the city streets.

I went into the chaplains’ area and read the briefing book of incidents. Then I headed out to – what? be with people? How do I do that? I could smile at people, I could make small talk if anyone cared (few did), but I had no clue how to open a conversation about what these men were experiencing. I felt unsure. If it were me, would I rather talk or sit in front of a TV? I’d probably go for the TV.

I joined the breakfast line. The hotel chef was serving in the hall, standing behind mountains of eggs, sausage, potatoes, and fruit. It was a nice hotel breakfast, only served in the hall to people who reeked of the pit. The hotel chef was short and broad, with brown hair trimmed neatly. Like me, he was both of the place but not in the direct line of fire. 

“Your scrambled eggs are so creamy. I love them. How do you do that?”

“Here’s the secret,” he told me, “You cook them over very low heat and keep stirring.”

Then I ventured, “How are you?”

“I’m hanging in there, thanks.”

After a solitary breakfast I wandered the halls, making eye contact but rarely speaking beyond smiling and saying, “hello.” What do you say to someone who has spent the day, the night, or both digging body parts out of rubble?

In the absence of conversation, I smiled. I smiled at men who likely hadn’t seen a smile for a while. I said hello, and occasionally I got a response. It didn’t feel like much. I was sure the trained chaplains were having deep conversations. I was sure that everyone else knew something I didn’t. I felt awkward, but I needed to be there. All I had was a habit, a hard hat, and a heart that needed to connect.

At the end of the day, I returned to the convent. Back to quiet time in the chapel, sitting after dinner, and making conversation. Sisters asked, “How did it go?” I didn’t know what to say. Overwhelming? Awkwardly wonderful? Surreal? “Okay,” I answered. Then to night prayer and the great silence.

I repeated this pattern one day a week for the next two months. I looked forward to going, but also fretted. Was I helping? In the end, I decided my business was to do my best and leave the results to God.

After a few weeks, I moved to St. Paul’s Chapel. The respite work was the same, but instead of recliners in a ballroom the men used the pews of the chapel to rest. There were live concerts at noon and hot food I helped serve. 

My real work at St. Paul’s was with the visitors. I stood by the fence draped with sheets, holding felt pens. I watched for people trapped in a feeling. Then, I’d approach. “Would you like to write something?”

Most did. The writing began a conversation. Others wouldn’t, but they wouldn’t move away from me either. I’d ask, “Did you lose someone?” Whether they had lost a person or not, this opened the floodgates. These people were not exhausted by the physical work of Ground Zero, but by the emotional labor of waiting and watching and wondering and grieving. Some didn’t have a person they were there for, but felt the pain of the whole thing. They were drawn to be with others who grieved. Really, I was one of them. The sorrow was a magnet, calling me to be there. My job was simply to listen, to lance the emotional abscess.

I served at St. Paul’s until winter hit. They had more than enough volunteers, and my community wanted me home. I turned in my hard hat and took the train a final time back home. I had been a tiny part of a defining moment in my country’s history. Still, I felt an opening toward a new form of service. I knew my life was never going to be the same.

-Shane Phelan

Shane Phelan has been a university professor specializing in LGBTQ politics, an Episcopal nun, an Episcopal priest, and founder of a new religious community. She leads recovery retreats and offers spiritual direction. She is writing a memoir about her life as a "big queer nun."