Survival Guilt - A new kind of guilt

During difficult times such as these, human contact, the presence of one another, counsels us more than words. Our vocabulary is too narrow to articulate our true needs and emotions. Right now we are a people consoling one another, yet we are also in need of consolation. As our security and joy seems as though it filed bankruptcy, fear, loneliness, sadness, anger, and guilt rage with hurricane force winds into our delicate hearts. And guilt chokes us. Normally referring to a failure of duty or the feeling that comes with committing a crime or a sin, guilt as we normally refer to it is mangled into what on the periphery seems irrational, yet is a very real and new kind of guilt: survivor guilt.

In the aftermath of Tuesday's terrorist attack a somber quietness takes over the city - subways cease, airplanes are grounded, traffic eases, and people walk a slow pace in silence. We long for routine- a crowded subway, a hectic day at work, people rushing through the streets, cabs honking, gridlock. Instead, reason toys with confusion and we rejoice and are comforted by the sounds we do hear - an ambulance's siren signifying hope for a survivor and the thunderous sound of fighter jets circling the city. And our tower of hope is now a collage of missing person's posters wallpapering the city streetlights and phone booths. Occasionally, the face of someone you know smiles at you from a Xerox picture with the word "missing" taking center stage.

At St. Vincent's Hospital the cousin of Paul Ortiz, Jr. tapes Paul's picture alongside the names of Ginger Risco (92nd fl), Sharon Moore (104th fl), Roger Mark Rasweiter (100th fl), Angelo Susan Perez (101st fl), to name only a few. One didn't have to look at the poster to know desperation, one only need look at this one man. Filled with overwhelming sorrow it was all I could do to lay my hand on him and tell him I would pray. Then moments later to turn to my sobbing friend who just learned her college friend is among the 700 Cantor Fitzgerald employees missing.

I prayed for relief but more than that, I wanted to take the place of all these grieving people. Whatever means necessary to alleviate their unbearable anguish- to die in place of their loved ones, or to somehow get in their skin. My life was suddenly meaningless in this sea of death unless it could take the place of these grieving cousins, friends, mothers, fathers, brother, sisters, daughters, sons. For those blessed few who were spared by being late to work, absent, voting, or getting breakfast they feel guilty to survive. And surviving they yearn to trade places with these grieving hearts.

Perhaps we don't think we deserve to survive, but I think it goes deeper than that. I think we have a much deeper bank of compassion than we ever fathomed. Our love for one another penetrates layers of our own fears and sorrows. To the marrow we go. Sensing perhaps a glimpse of what Jesus felt dying for us - if only our lives could take away their grief the way Jesus' life took away our sins. I don't know if faced with the possibility, I would literally die for them, but I will suffer for them. And I will take up the cross for them. And I will mourn, and weep, and ignite hope. I will turn this mangled guilt into an arrow of purpose, a veracious purpose to live.