‘We may not live through today’
The fireman’s comment wasn’t panicked or desperate. It wasn’t even sad. It was just a statement of fact, like saying, “It’s raining outside.”
Capt. Jay Jonas, Ladder 6, FDNY, awaiting orders in the North Tower’s ground-floor lobby command post: I’m standing there. It was very loud—as you can imagine, the acoustics in the lobby of the World Trade Center weren’t really good, a lot of echoes—and all of a sudden it got very quiet. One of the firemen from Rescue 1 looked up and said, “We may not live through today.” We looked at him, and we looked at each other, and we said, “You’re right.” We took the time to shake each other’s hands and wish each other good luck and “Hope I’ll see you later,” which is especially poignant for me because we all had that acknowledgment that this might be our last day on earth, and we went to work anyway.
There’s something undeniably unsettling about a moment when people face the reality of death so bluntly yet move forward as though it’s just another Tuesday. Captain Jay Jonas and his crew standing in the North Tower of the World Trade Center on 9/11, shaking hands, acknowledging that they might not make it through the day—it’s so mundane and profound at the same time. You can picture the scene: a group of guys, probably covered in dust and sweat, the air thick with an acrid blend of smoke and panic, just looking at one another and saying, “Yeah, this is it. We’re probably not coming out of this.”
It’s a situation that would bring most of us to a halt. I’d probably spend the next twenty minutes revisiting every decision I’d ever made and wondering if I could somehow un-ring the bell that got me into that spot. Not these guys, though. They said it, acknowledged it, shook hands, and then returned to the task. There’s no big speech, no fanfare—just a quiet, resigned acceptance that this is the job, and now’s the time to get on with it.
The fireman’s comment, “We may not live through today,” hangs there, like the last breath of a prayer no one says out loud. It wasn’t panicked or desperate. It wasn’t even sad. It was just a statement of fact, like saying, “It’s raining outside.” And what did they do with that fact? They wished each other good luck and carried on. I can’t shake how ordinary that response is. It’s not dramatic or heroic in the Hollywood sense, where a sweeping musical score underscores everything. It’s just… work. It’s what they do.
There’s something so profoundly human about that scene, too. No one tried to lie to themselves or each other. There were no false reassurances or attempts to inject false hope into the situation. Just the reality: we might not make it. The handshakes and good-lucks were their way of saying, “If this is it, I’m glad I’m here with you.”
Maybe that’s what makes it so striking. They didn’t turn away from the moment’s terror. They faced it. They acknowledged that death might be closer than it’s ever been, and then they went to work anyway. It’s hard to imagine that kind of courage, but maybe it wasn’t even courage for them. Perhaps it was just the job—something they’d prepared for a hundred times over in drills and training, as much as one can prepare for two commercial airliners flying into skyscrapers only to have the towers collapse within hours.
Except this wasn’t a drill. And they knew it.
Recommended reading
The Crook in the Lot by Thomas Boston
A classic work by a Scottish Puritan, Boston tackles the issue of suffering and affliction under God’s sovereign hand.
A Grief Sanctified by J.I. Packer
Packer examines the journal of Richard Baxter, another Puritan pastor, after the death of his wife. It’s an honest look at how we process sorrow while resting in the eternal hope of Christ.