File #989: "Mosaic_Spring2008_9.jpg"
Description
Reaching his car with cell phone in hand, Morgan opened the door and dialed. Angela, pick up." He anxiously murmured, a sigh of relief escaping his lips upon hearing her voice.
"Honey, the Towers! What's happening?"
"I don't know. I'll be there in a few minutes," Morgan replied. “Are you and Sarah all right?"
"Yes, Robert, please come now," Angela pleaded. Driving home Morgan's thoughts were filled with an undeniable sense of insecurity and unspeakable grief, while trying to absorb everything that was transpiring. Lingering images flashed across his mind of planes torpedoing into the Twin Towers, of desperate people running blindly through dust and debris, and reports of more possible terrorist attacks.
Pulling into the driveway, his thoughts shifted to a conversation he'd had with Angela just the day before, which ended with what color paint to buy for the baby's room. Yesterday seemed so far away.
Morgan inhaled deeply. The sensation of his toes burning from the bitter cold now invading the lining of his thick rubber boots, and the frantic woman's cries mingling with the wailing sirens suddenly drove his thoughts back to the present. The old three-story apartment building completely engulfed in flames now, began collapsing.
Morgan gasped as the ladder shuddered beneath him and then shook violently, throwing him off. Free falling fast, he could hear the pulsating sounds of rescue equipment and shouts from citizens gathering on the frozen ground below. The noise began to fade into the abyss of time, while a familiar beeping grew louder, keeping pace with each rapid beat of his heart.
Morgan reached over and shut off the alarm, knocking the small table lamp onto the floor. "Intense dream," he muttered, snuggling closer to Angela.
Sighing deeply, she responded, "I'm sorry, sweetheart." Gently squeezing Morgan's hand, she whispered, "I love you." She then drifted back to sleep.
Meditating upon a poem, "The Fireman's Prayer," that Angela had framed and recently placed on the nightstand, Morgan thanked God for his wife and children while peacefully watching the light snow gently outside their bedroom window.
Dedicated to my Dad, Firefighter Robert C. Lemmon- deceased, and to all the heroes of 9/11)
Fireman's Prayer
K. F. Stewart
When I'm called to duty, God,
wherever flames may rage,
Give me strength to save a life
whatever be its age.
Help me to embrace a little child
before it is too late,
Or save an older person from
the horror of that fate.
Enable me to be alert
to hear the weakest shout
And quickly and efficiently
to put the fire out.
I want to fill my calling and
to give the best in me
To guard my every neighbor
and protect their property,
And if according to Your will,
I have to lose my life,
Please bless with Your protecting hand
My children and my wife.
"Honey, the Towers! What's happening?"
"I don't know. I'll be there in a few minutes," Morgan replied. “Are you and Sarah all right?"
"Yes, Robert, please come now," Angela pleaded. Driving home Morgan's thoughts were filled with an undeniable sense of insecurity and unspeakable grief, while trying to absorb everything that was transpiring. Lingering images flashed across his mind of planes torpedoing into the Twin Towers, of desperate people running blindly through dust and debris, and reports of more possible terrorist attacks.
Pulling into the driveway, his thoughts shifted to a conversation he'd had with Angela just the day before, which ended with what color paint to buy for the baby's room. Yesterday seemed so far away.
Morgan inhaled deeply. The sensation of his toes burning from the bitter cold now invading the lining of his thick rubber boots, and the frantic woman's cries mingling with the wailing sirens suddenly drove his thoughts back to the present. The old three-story apartment building completely engulfed in flames now, began collapsing.
Morgan gasped as the ladder shuddered beneath him and then shook violently, throwing him off. Free falling fast, he could hear the pulsating sounds of rescue equipment and shouts from citizens gathering on the frozen ground below. The noise began to fade into the abyss of time, while a familiar beeping grew louder, keeping pace with each rapid beat of his heart.
Morgan reached over and shut off the alarm, knocking the small table lamp onto the floor. "Intense dream," he muttered, snuggling closer to Angela.
Sighing deeply, she responded, "I'm sorry, sweetheart." Gently squeezing Morgan's hand, she whispered, "I love you." She then drifted back to sleep.
Meditating upon a poem, "The Fireman's Prayer," that Angela had framed and recently placed on the nightstand, Morgan thanked God for his wife and children while peacefully watching the light snow gently outside their bedroom window.
Dedicated to my Dad, Firefighter Robert C. Lemmon- deceased, and to all the heroes of 9/11)
Fireman's Prayer
K. F. Stewart
When I'm called to duty, God,
wherever flames may rage,
Give me strength to save a life
whatever be its age.
Help me to embrace a little child
before it is too late,
Or save an older person from
the horror of that fate.
Enable me to be alert
to hear the weakest shout
And quickly and efficiently
to put the fire out.
I want to fill my calling and
to give the best in me
To guard my every neighbor
and protect their property,
And if according to Your will,
I have to lose my life,
Please bless with Your protecting hand
My children and my wife.