The Man from Kansas (Christmas Eve at Ground Zero 2001)
The man from Kansas stood in the shadows, away from prying eyes and questioning hearts, surveying the rubble. Even in the crisp December air…more than three months past the holocaust…that rubble smoldered still. The man from Kansas felt his heart churning with an uneasy mix of reactions…admiration, sadness, regret, outrage, faith, compassion, guilt…a mix he had grown all too accustomed to each time he came to the gleaming city and help with the cleanup of her gaping wound.
Some had wondered where he was…their guardian angel…when the horror rained down on the metropolis. Some had blamed him for his failure…for his inability to predict and prevent the great birds of men mortally wounding the proud buildings that had stabbed defiantly towards the heart of heaven. Some had blamed him…even as he blamed himself…but most had not. They knew that, despite the fact he was more than a man he was, just the same, only human after all…and that some things cannot be predicted beforehand anymore than they could be fully comprehended afterwards.
The man from Kansas sighed, his compassionate eyes growing humid, and casually kicked free from the grasp of gravity. He rose gracefully, his great scarlet cloak billowing gently in the icy winter’s breeze, quickly up into the New York night…high above the spotlights illuminating the expansive area of destruction where mighty towers had once stood proud. High above the proud, angry, defiant, heroic men and women who toiled in that rubble…searching for the lost, accumulating the debris, holding onto to faith in God and country in the face of things once beyond imagining.
The man from Kansas allowed a single tear to trickle down his alabaster cheek…he had cried many tears…spent countless hours down in the rubble (in this guise and as his real self) one amongst many doing what they could to help…to cope…to understand. In the middle of the destruction, a simple sign of life…a bright and beautiful tree adorned with the decorations of the season…stood side by side with an unbowed American flag. War and madness notwithstanding, Christmas Eve was still Christmas Eve.
The man from Kansas felt an impulse to soar away…to return home where his loving parents and his amazing lady wife were waiting patiently…but he stayed it for a moment. His celebrity was not something he understood…or ever felt completely comfortable with (he was, after all, just doing what he could with the gifts the universe had given him)…but he knew it was real (and to many, comforting) just the same. With another casual thought, he descended down into the rubble…down into the spotlight.
Weary souls…construction workers, fire fighters, police officers…looked up in awe as he glided down into their midst. And, for a moment, the work stopped as they gathered around him, shaking his hand…telling little jokes…sharing salutations of the gentle season. And then, they turned and returned to their tasks. And the man from Kansas put aside his cloak and rolled up his sleeves and put his mighty powers in the same service.
An hour or so into his time there, the man from Kansas held up a twisted girder as a young man with haunted but hopeful eyes went under to search a bit. The young man looked up, awe-struck by the power and celebrity of his companion, and smiled shyly. “Merry Christmas, sir,” the young man said before returning to the task at hand.
“Yes it is, son,” the man from Kansas…and Krypton…said with a small, hopeful smile. “Despite everything, it is…and ever will be.”
The two men shared a nod…sharing the moment on that bright Christmas Eve as men and comrades, workers and mourners, human beings touched by tragedy yet made strong by faith, hope, and the love of a gentler season…and then they returned to their work.
Some had wondered where he was…their guardian angel…when the horror rained down on the metropolis. Some had blamed him for his failure…for his inability to predict and prevent the great birds of men mortally wounding the proud buildings that had stabbed defiantly towards the heart of heaven. Some had blamed him…even as he blamed himself…but most had not. They knew that, despite the fact he was more than a man he was, just the same, only human after all…and that some things cannot be predicted beforehand anymore than they could be fully comprehended afterwards.
The man from Kansas sighed, his compassionate eyes growing humid, and casually kicked free from the grasp of gravity. He rose gracefully, his great scarlet cloak billowing gently in the icy winter’s breeze, quickly up into the New York night…high above the spotlights illuminating the expansive area of destruction where mighty towers had once stood proud. High above the proud, angry, defiant, heroic men and women who toiled in that rubble…searching for the lost, accumulating the debris, holding onto to faith in God and country in the face of things once beyond imagining.
The man from Kansas allowed a single tear to trickle down his alabaster cheek…he had cried many tears…spent countless hours down in the rubble (in this guise and as his real self) one amongst many doing what they could to help…to cope…to understand. In the middle of the destruction, a simple sign of life…a bright and beautiful tree adorned with the decorations of the season…stood side by side with an unbowed American flag. War and madness notwithstanding, Christmas Eve was still Christmas Eve.
The man from Kansas felt an impulse to soar away…to return home where his loving parents and his amazing lady wife were waiting patiently…but he stayed it for a moment. His celebrity was not something he understood…or ever felt completely comfortable with (he was, after all, just doing what he could with the gifts the universe had given him)…but he knew it was real (and to many, comforting) just the same. With another casual thought, he descended down into the rubble…down into the spotlight.
Weary souls…construction workers, fire fighters, police officers…looked up in awe as he glided down into their midst. And, for a moment, the work stopped as they gathered around him, shaking his hand…telling little jokes…sharing salutations of the gentle season. And then, they turned and returned to their tasks. And the man from Kansas put aside his cloak and rolled up his sleeves and put his mighty powers in the same service.
An hour or so into his time there, the man from Kansas held up a twisted girder as a young man with haunted but hopeful eyes went under to search a bit. The young man looked up, awe-struck by the power and celebrity of his companion, and smiled shyly. “Merry Christmas, sir,” the young man said before returning to the task at hand.
“Yes it is, son,” the man from Kansas…and Krypton…said with a small, hopeful smile. “Despite everything, it is…and ever will be.”
The two men shared a nod…sharing the moment on that bright Christmas Eve as men and comrades, workers and mourners, human beings touched by tragedy yet made strong by faith, hope, and the love of a gentler season…and then they returned to their work.
posted by Michael K. Willis @ 11:05 AM
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