Ground zero in New York City is a bleak ruin surrounded by a wall of green boards about fifteen feet high and perhaps half a mile in diameter. Inside are jagged circles of activity; at the centre, eight floors of twisted burnt girders that were once Tower One. Twenty-four hours a day, the eerie glow of spotlights shine on smouldering fires spewing up dust and particles from layers below the surface. The layers are made up of half melted girders, metal and chemical particles or human ash and a restraining wall - the "bathtub" - that keeps Battery Park from slipping into the bay. Five or so more layers to dig up, and with each layer the wall has to be strengthened. "At least a year's work," I'm told.

I'm on the Red Cross chaplains' night shift and get to know workers who come in for a break at a respite centre that took over two floors of St John's University on West Street. The workers are city and state police officers, construction crews, national guards, army engineers, city, state and federal security and safety officials, and firefighters, all of whose shifts average from twelve to sixteen hours a day. When they come in, their gas masks seem part of their faces. Sometimes they forget to take them off until they reach the food line.

At St John's there is a logistics office where they can pick up a new pair of jeans or boots or sweatshirts. In one day's labour, clothes are clotted with particles and ash and boots begin to melt. New clothes and steel-toed boots are necessary.

St. John's walls are lined with cards, toys and letters from all over the world. Right at the entry sits an enormous white teddy bear with a heart on it. "Welcome, this is your place... and eat something!"

The chaplain's table is set about ten feet behind the teddy bear. I stand there, greeting people, or walk around, looking for a person who might want to talk. I'm well equipped with a Bible, a pocket Qu'ran, and a book of prayers.

In the dining room, a few create a bubble of privacy around themselves. Others seem wanting to talk but stay alone at their table. I go say hello and ask to sit down, ready for a "spiritual" question. Nope. Tonight it's politics, interspersed with tales of the remains of a policeman found the day before and a firefighter that afternoon.

There is constant daylight here: the cold light of the site, the warm light of the centre. I leave at eight am and walk a mile and a half to decompress.

Back home, I call my supervisor for a debriefing and frankly ask him what my purpose was. He says, "to be a presence". To be there for them.

Jill Schaeffer, Presbytery of New York City
Presbyterian Church (USA)