Clergy/Leaders’ Mail-list No. 1-200 (General Information)

DEBRIEFING AT GROUND ZERO (Part 2)

by Toby Nelson

[Continued from CLM-1-199:

. . .When I am in this place, the Spirit may prompt me to say something like, “The Lord hears the cry of your heart”, or “God’s heart is broken too”.]

The fourth question helps me get back in my head. We humans don’t seem to be wired to stay in soul-extremis very long. Our primal instincts drive us out of such intense agony. As I hear their responses I can back off of the contagious pain that seems consuming and analyze how they are looking to the future.

So the fourth question asks, “What will you do?” The purpose of extreme pain is to prompt action. When the pain level is high enough, people will do something, sometimes anything, to get out of the horrible anxiety. Doing something helps reduce pain. Our culture recommends a variety of poor choices and escape methods to kill the pain like, alcohol, drugs, workaholism, sports thrills, comfort in sex, get revenge, or spend money. Often people are so depressed they are enervated or paralyzed. They maybe stuck and not want to do anything, and maybe they can’t right now. They may feel disoriented because of the traumatic events. These are discussions that don’t lend themselves to a one-time trauma counseling session.

I don’t have to help them figure out their next job or lack of finances, other agencies will help do that. I don’t have to solve legal or health issues; others will assist with those issues. What I can do is something that no one else will do, and that is to help him or her connect with God.

As a spiritual counselor I can ask if I may pray a blessing on the person or family. After making this offer to several hundred people, including New York City Police officers and Firefighters at Ground Zero, everyone is eager to receive it. Even Muslim families welcome a Christian blessing. The act of prayer directs people to the One who can help. Prayer is a spiritual experience that even those far from God are driven to because of their pain. Pain prompts prayer. I reach out to hold hands, and offer a prayer like this:

Lord, I know you love this person/family and you are hurting right along with them. Please help them get information on their loved one. And I am asking that your hand be on them to guide them through the decisions Give them strength to endure, and hope for the future. Draw them close to each other and continue to draw them close to you. We give ourselves to you and trust you. We pray in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

I tell them I will continue to pray for them. I ask if they have a church they attend and a pastor or priest they can talk to. About half are connected to a church, and I encourage them to continue to seek support from their faith community. If they are not attending a church, I ask if they have a friend who attends a good church they love. Usually they do, so I encourage them to get in touch with their friend and go next Sunday. There is part of me that wants to send them to a Christ loving, Bible teaching, family friendly, compassionate church, but I have to trust God to direct them.

This whole conversation may have taken just 20 minutes or an hour. I have to admit, by this time in the session, I’m done. I feel like I have put in a full day and want to go home. I’m exhausted spiritually, mentally, and emotionally. So, what do I do next?

I get another banana.

By the end of four hours and choking down 11 bananas, I need to stop. Usually the Chaplains will get together to debrief. Three questions will be asked: First, what significant story did you hear? Second, what burden are you carrying inside? And third, what inspired you in the past 4 hours? I know this debrief session is necessary, but as we told one horrifying story after another, we all got traumatized again. We closed with prayer offering our wounds and worries up to God.

I have learned that the accumulation of stories overwhelms my natural strengths and reserves. I’m so emotionally exhausted that I’m not safe anymore, and if I stay, I will say stupid things. There are still hundreds of people in the food court wanting and needing to talk . . . but I’m done. I have to discipline my messianic urges to help everyone. I feel guilty about leaving, but I have to trust God to take care of them. I need to pray that God would raise up more laborers to work with this harvest. But I still feel guilty . . . and thrilled that I could be part of a holy work.

Exiting past the military and police guards, I feel refreshed by the cool night air. The two-hour train ride home offers a transition that feels like going from hell to heaven. I am spent and thrilled. All I think about is going home to sleep. It is usually about 2 AM when I arrive and debrief with my wife. She is eager to hear the stories and experiences. She begins the first of four questions, “Honey, tell me the facts . . . .”

The next morning I feel sore and beaten up. Even ten hours of sleep cannot take away the thick grog from head. My wife says I tossed and turned in a disturbed fitful sleep. I dreamt of the surreal images at Ground Zero swirling in my mind as ghostly montages. The frustration of not being able to give tidy, prepackaged answers to eternal questions stimulate a sense of helplessness, and after talking with a couple hundred people that look like you or me, I find myself experiencing a vague survivor’s guilt. I remembered the picture of a missing black pastor, and my having been in the World Trade Center on other Tuesdays, I wondered, “Why his picture and not mine?” The memory of faces and stories race around in my head, refusing to settle into pre-made pigeon holes. There is little in my past experiences that allow me places to fit this calamity.

Since I go in on Monday nights, I purposely plan for a quiet Tuesday at the office. It takes me at least a week to shake off the traumas I heard and imagined in my mind. Even if my trauma comes second hand, the cumulative effect wears and tears at my energy levels and mental sharpness. When the next Monday comes, I feel like my wounds from the previous week are still raw. Paradoxically, I feel dread and eagerness to go back. I have learned to anticipate the cost of hearing the demonic horrors crafted for unsuspecting humans. Yet I am truly privileged to bring the ministry of heaven past the gates of hell.

[I have probably written more than would be wanted, but the writing helped me to debrief and process what is happening to me. I hope it is helpful.]

Toby Nelson <>