Thunder Dog (13 page)

Because Roselle trusts me and because we’ve worked together enough to become a team and to know each other’s habits, she listens to my voice. When I correct her, she stops and listens, trying to figure out what I want her to do. It’s the same with the shepherd. As the relationship grows, the sheep learn to follow his voice “in the paths of righteousness.” Then, when difficult times come and the sheep have to walk through dangerous situations, God is there, guiding.

When he worked as a shepherd, my dad used a rod and staff to guide and protect the sheep. I have my white cane and the guide dog harness instead. God uses more sophisticated and even mysterious ways to guide and protect, but even though I don’t always understand how he works, I am comforted and confident knowing that he is at work in my life.

When the day ends and Roselle’s harness comes off, she can rest. She knows she’s part of the family, and she has her own bed, her own dog toys and chew bone, and her own food and water bowl. When work is over, she can play, eat, and relax. She is an important part of our family, just as I’m an important part of God’s family and an honored guest at God’s table. Even when there are enemies about, I can eat and drink of God’s goodness in safety at his side. I am special to him.

I’ve had many other dogs, but there is only one Roselle. And I know her. I know the feel of her ears and her neck, the nudge of her nose against my hand, and the lean of her powerful body against my calf. I know the sound of her happy bark, her drowsy snore, and her sad little whine. She was specially trained and set apart for me by Guide Dogs for the Blind, and she is unique. There is no other guide dog, or any dog, exactly like her.

And God knows me. He made me. He has studied me and watched over me, and he loves me. He “anoints my head with oil.” In the Middle East, hosts used to anoint their honored guests at banquets with oil on their hair and beards; it was meant to invigorate and refresh. Anointing also could be used to set someone aside as holy or sacred, meant for a special purpose. Part of the fun and challenge of living has been discovering my purpose. What was I designed for? How can I use what I have learned and the experiences I’ve been through to help others? Roselle knows her purpose. I am still discovering and living out mine.

God’s goodness and mercy follow me every day, like the shepherd follows after his sheep. He pursues each one until he brings it safely home, as in the story told by Jesus of the shepherd who left his flock of ninety-nine to find one lost sheep, rejoicing when he found and rescued it.

I heard a story about a man visiting Yellowstone National Park with his dog. They were hiking among the mineral springs, some of which contain water superheated by geothermal forces above the boiling point to temperatures of two hundred degrees Fahrenheit and above. He unleashed his dog, which promptly ran off and jumped into one of the springs. The dog yelped and began to struggle as the water seared his flesh. His owner hesitated for a moment then jumped in after his dog. There is no happy ending to this story; both perished. But I have always remembered the man’s extravagant love for his dog and his decision to chance death in the boiling water.

When the tower fell and I cried out to God, his answer gave me hope. When God is for us, who can be against us? There is hope for the future. I am part of God’s family, and “I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”

I didn’t tell anyone about my encounter with God that day under the shadow of the tower. I didn’t tell anyone the next day or even the next week. It was such a powerful moment, so intimate and so personal, that I didn’t share it with anyone for three or four years. I wanted to be able to present it right, and I didn’t want it to be some hokey, manipulative thing. I didn’t want to wear my miracle on my sleeve. I prayed about what to do, and slowly, as time passed, I grew more comfortable talking about my life-and-death moment, my desperate cry, and God’s response, and it slowly became a public part of my story. Some people might not believe it or might judge it wishful thinking or something that came out of my own heart and mind. Some people might even get angry, knowing that God didn’t answer the same prayers offered up by others. But he did answer mine.

I found out later that other people were praying for me that day besides Karen. A dear friend of ours, the Reverend K. Cherie Jones, was pastor of Atascadero United Methodist Church in California’s Central Coast. We met her when she was pastoring a church in San Marcos, California, close to where we lived. We three hit it off and began a lifelong friendship, growing very close when a good friend of Cherie’s was brutally murdered by her ex-husband. Her friend’s body was discovered six months later, and it was two and a half years before the murderer was sent to prison. Karen and I stayed in close contact with Cherie during that difficult time, exchanging countless e-mails, phone calls, and prayers as she grieved.

On September 11, Cherie happened to wake up at 6:15 a.m. and flipped on the TV, as usual, to check the local news and weather. But something strange was going on. Instead of the familiar faces of the morning news anchors, Katie Couric and the
Today Show
people were on, along with startling images of New York City on fire. It had been about thirty minutes since the first explosion and just fifteen minutes since the second. Cherie was confused.
The
Today
show isn’t supposed to be on
, she thought. Then she thought of two people: me, wondering if I still worked in the WTC, and a parishioner who was a pilot for Delta Airlines with a regular West to East Coast route.

Cherie began to pray for both of us, for the emergency responders, and for the other people in the towers. She called the pilot’s wife and found out he was on the ground, safe. Next she tried Karen to see if I was okay but couldn’t get through.

Then she got down to business. Cherie started calling her prayer warriors to work the church directories. “You take pages 1 and 2; call everybody and tell them to pray and then meet us at the church at 9 a.m.,” she told the first one. She kept calling, dividing up the work of contacting the congregation, then headed over to the church. Forty people ended up joining her, and they began to pray for us, for the people in the towers and the Pentagon, for those still in the air, and for the city and the nation. The United States was under attack, and no one knew what was going to happen next. But God certainly knew, and he was hearing a lot about it from the people of Atascadero.

When Cherie first started praying for us, David, Roselle, and I were in the stairwell on about the 10th floor. When she started calling people, we were out on the street, fleeing the towers. When the South Tower collapsed, she saw it on TV and began praying for me in earnest, not knowing if I was still inside or not. I may just owe my life to my wife, my family, my friends, and a woman out on the West Coast in her pajamas, praying for me by name as Roselle and I walked through the valley of the shadow of death.

Sometimes walking, sometimes running, we stay on the sidewalk and move west on Fulton Street, searching for a refuge. I can barely breathe, but I can still hear, and I listen for an opening. I keep telling Roselle, “Right . . . right,” hoping she will find an open doorway. She listens, and through the harness I can tell she is looking. I don’t know if she can see anything, but I’m trusting she will use her nose and her ears to find an opening for us.

We have to get out of the dust or we are going to die. But even in the dust cloud, with my guide dog now blind, too, I feel God’s presence. He is with me. I am not alone. I am running with Roselle.

This is the true joy in life—being used for a
purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty
one; being thoroughly worn out before you are
thrown on the scrap heap; being a force of nature
instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments
and grievances complaining that the world
will not devote itself to making you happy.
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

D
ebris showers the streets. The horrific sounds continue as the South Tower rubble settles, concrete, steel, and glass groaning and grinding its way downward.

We are running along the sidewalk when Roselle and I hear an opening. “Right,” I cry out. I feel an overwhelming yearning to be inside a safe and secure building that isn’t going to collapse or burst into flames.

David goes with us. Just after Roselle turns and goes into the opening, she stops, the first time she’s stopped all day without my direction.
What does she see? She wouldn’t stop without good reason
.

I slide my right foot out and feel the edge of a step and I can hear the echo of a stairwell going down. Roselle has stopped me at the top of a long flight of stairs. I still don’t feel safe, though. I want to get farther away from the hellish situation outside. I need a safe place to breathe and regroup. So does Roselle. I’m not sure where we are yet, but I trust her, and we are going in.

We’ve already navigated down 1,463 stairs today. What are a few more?

“Forward,” I say. We rush in, leaving the death and destruction and chaos behind. At least for a while.

David wipes at his eyes and tries to make out the sign: F
ULTON
S
TREET
S
UBWAY
S
TATION
. As we walk down the stairs, we’re rubbing our eyes and wiping our noses and brushing off the dust as best we can. I’m coughing and snorting, trying to clear my lungs.

Roselle is panting; then she sneezes a few times.
I wonder how she’s doing. Going through something like this must be pushing her to exhaustion
. But she doesn’t show any strain. Her walk is light, steady, and sure. The noise of the tower settling, along with the emergency vehicles and frenzied voices outside, must be alarming to her sharp canine ears. But she gives no sign that it bothers her.

We reach the bottom of the stairs and discover a larger space. It turns out to be a small arcade leading into the subway station. I hear crying.

“I can’t see! My eyes are full of dirt,” a woman wails. “I can’t see! I don’t want to fall into the subway.”

I give Roselle a nudge with the harness, and we walk toward the voice. I’m no superhero, but I think I can help.

I reach out with my right hand and touch her arm.

She quiets.

I gently take her arm and tuck it into mine.

“Please don’t worry.” I keep my voice measured and low. “I am blind, and I have a guide dog named Roselle. She will help us and keep us from falling down the stairs into the subway.” Roselle stands quietly, waiting.

The woman responds, clutching my arm. This time the blind really is leading the blind, but why should that be unusual? After all, helping this lady is what teamwork is all about.

I hear someone coming up the stairs from farther down in the station. It’s a man, he says his name is Lou, and he works in the subway. “Follow me,” he says, his voice urgent.

Other refugees have wandered in from the street, and now there are eight of us. Lou leads the group down the stairs and a hallway and then through a doorway into the employee locker room. It’s quiet inside, clean and cool. An oscillating fan stirs the air. There is a water fountain against the wall, and we take turns cleaning up and washing out our eyes and mouths. Water never tasted so good. Roselle flops down to rest on the cool floor.

When not at the water fountain, we sit on the locker room benches and rest. My head is spinning. So much has happened in such a short time, and my mind reels, going over the events and trying to make sense of the explosion, the fire, the freight train/ waterfall noise, and the dust cloud. But even though my mind is racing, trying to put the pieces together in some sort of order, my heart is calm and peaceful. I relive the sound of the building’s collapse and my desperate prayer.
God’s voice was so clear. And I still feel that same inner peace, even though we almost died
.

I know others have died. There could be hundreds or even thousands who have perished in the fire, the building collapse, or from the debris. I could have so easily died if the building had fallen a little differently, if we had taken a different path, or if we had moved at a slower pace.

What if we had worked for a while longer trying to shut down the computers in the office before we left? We could still be in the stairwell right now
. But we are not. Roselle and I are here, safe for the moment, underground with a guy named Lou.

God spared my life and he spoke to me. There must be a reason
. But I don’t have time to figure it out because just then, a police officer bursts into the locker room. He is covered in dust too.

“The air is starting to clear,” he says. “It’s time to move out. I have orders to evacuate the station.” I check my watch. We’ve been in the station about ten minutes, but we follow his orders. Who knows what else is going to happen? I’m anxious to get out and farther away from this whole area. I want to know what is going on, and I want to try to call Karen again. She must be frantic.

Instantly Roselle stands up with me, ready to work. As a group, we follow the police officer, walking quietly.

What will we find outside?

Once, Karen and I were visiting her brother, who lived in the mountains of Idaho. It was a beautiful day, and we decided to take a walk. His nine-year-old daughter asked me a surprising question: “How can you go take a walk?” Of course she meant no offense, but her question put into words a common misconception: that somehow blindness equates to a lack of ability, or even to incompetence. Even though she had spent considerable time with me while we lived in New Jersey, she still couldn’t conceive of how a blind person could walk independently.

If there is just one message about blindness that I could share with sighted people, it would be this: It’s okay to be blind. It won’t ruin your life or drain away all joy and satisfaction. It won’t strangle your creativity or lower your intelligence. It won’t keep you from traveling and experiencing life in other places. It won’t separate you from friends and family. It won’t keep you from falling in love, getting married, and having a family of your own. It won’t prevent you from getting a job and making a living. Blindness doesn’t mean the end of the world. And with technology and education, blindness can be reduced from an all-consuming disability to just another human limitation, of which there are many. There is more to life than eye function.

The legal definition of blindness is visual acuity of less than 20/200 with correction or a field of less than 20 degrees; there are people all over the spectrum in regard to sight. Some people can see light but cannot discern objects. Some people have fuzzy vision but can still navigate and walk down the sidewalk without help. Some people see nothing. So how do you define blindness? The human definition of blindness, according to Kenneth Jernigan, a civil rights pioneer for the blind and past president of the National Federation of the Blind, is a little different from the legal definition: “A person is blind to the extent that the individual must devise alternative techniques to do efficiently those things which he or she would do if they had normal vision.”
¹
So blind people are still able-bodied, with full command of their intelligence and abilities; they just use alternative techniques on their journey through life. And sometimes those techniques can even be superior to the techniques of light-dependent people.

Laura Sloate is a managing director for a Wall Street investment management firm. She has been blind since the age of six. In an interview with the
New York Times
, she talked about how she reads constantly for her job, spending hours keeping up with the news from the
Wall Street Journal
and other industry news sources. She uses her computer’s text-to-speech system to play the
Economist
(magazine) aloud at the pace of three hundred words a minute. At the same time, an assistant reads the
Financial Times
to her, and “she devotes one ear to the paper and the other to the magazine.”
²

If you happen to call me on the telephone, while we are talking, I may also be catching up on e-mail or reading documents at the same time. So during our conversation, you just might hear a low-pitched, digitized man’s voice muttering in the background. Once you get the hang of it, it’s not that difficult to keep up with a screen reader at high speeds, and it’s not uncommon for blind people to listen to screen readers at three hundred, four hundred, or even five hundred words a minute.

Blindness doesn’t mean inferiority. When Kenneth Jernigan took over the presidency of the National Federation of the Blind, he began his leadership of a movement based on the belief that “a blind person can compete at almost anything on terms of equality with a sighted person.”
³

Currently, there are successful blind architects, engineers, attorneys, doctors, teachers, scientists, mathematicians, businesspeople, musicians, and artists. A war veteran named Scott Smiley, who lost his sight to a massive car bomb in the northern part of Iraq, is the Army’s first blind active-duty officer. He also competes in triathlons, skis, and jumps out of planes. He has summited Mount Rainier and surfed solo in Hawaii.
⁴
Erik Weihenmayer is a mountain climber who became the first blind man in history to reach the summit of Mount Everest. He has also conquered the Seven Summits, climbing the highest peak on every continent. David Blunkett is a member of Parliament in Britain. Blind since birth and raised in a very poor family, he served as Tony Blair’s education secretary then served as home secretary from 2001 to 2004. A blind photographer named Pete Eckert recently won a major photography competition in New York City. His work was singled out over hundreds of submissions from photographers in fourteen countries. “I am not bound by the assumptions of the sighted or their assumed limits,” he said in a recent interview. “The camera is another means of making art to me.”
⁵

In a recent conversation, Marc Maurer, the current president of National Federation of the Blind, was asked for a list of professions that are still largely off-limits to blind people. He came up with two. Professional sports are very visually oriented, and while blind people participate in athletics all the time, to be a competitive football player with the technology available is “quite unlikely.” The second area off-limits to the blind is any job that requires professional driving. “Beyond those two, I haven’t identified any others,” said Dr. Maurer.

While pro football might be off-limits for a while, driving blind could just be in my very near future. While I’ve driven a car a few times around Palmdale, UC Irvine, and the parking lot at George’s Burgers with my sales force, it was always brief and just for fun. I needed a sighted person as a guide because the technology did not exist for me to drive public roads safely and legally. But that is changing, with some new technology in development under Dr. Dennis Hong, a professor of mechanical engineering and director of the Robotics and Mechanisms Laboratory at Virginia Tech. The project is designed to allow blind people to independently drive automobiles one day through novel nonvisual user interfaces. I haven’t had the chance to try it out yet since it’s still in development, but I’ve heard it involves a special steering wheel used to communicate with and direct the car. A second-generation prototype is now in the works, using a modified 2010 Ford Hybrid Escape with even better interface technology. Someday soon I’ll be able to take Karen out for a drive.

The technology revolution that began with Ray Kurzweil and his reading machine for the blind is still rolling, with the need for technology in the blind community driving innovation in the larger business community. The success of the reading machine also demonstrated that “addressing the problem of blindness by building a piece of technology that is useful for blind people means there quite often will be additional technological developments resulting from that piece of technology that would be useful and sellable to the rest of society,” said Dr. Maurer. The needs of blind people are driving technological advances for all drivers. Besides the smart driver technology that, when adopted by the big automobile manufacturers, will help make driving safer for everyone, blind technology has been adopted and developed for many other uses. There are some extraordinary GPS devices in development that will make it to the sighted market at some point. Kurzweil developed dictation technology that has crossed over and is built into the Dragon NaturallySpeaking computer programs. And a new e-book reader called Blio will be released by the time this book appears. Blio is a platform-independent piece of software first developed for the blind, but now available for all to read books and magazines on a computer, phone, or other mobile device. The Blio will read books out loud, using lifelike, natural voices dubbed “Samantha” and “Tom,” and will provide full-color pages in brilliant 3-D for the sighted.