Monument in Oklahoma is symbol of hope

The monument is a quiet oasis of meditation, a spot where people of all ages come to pause and wonder, remember and weep, and reflect on some hard lessons that we have had to learn.

While traffic passed by and the commotion of a busy capital city went on around me, I read the words engraved on the wall of steel ahead: "We come here to remember...those who were killed, those who survived and those changed forever. May all who leave here know the impact of violence....May this memorial offer comfort, strength, peace, hope and serenity."

As I walked towards the wall known as the east gate, the candor of those words captivated me. They made their way into my mind, forcing me to remember. When the explosion occurred, federal employees had just arrived at work. Visitors were there to pick up their Social Security checks. Infants and toddlers were playing in a day-care center on the ground floor.

The wall of steel now guards what Americans have come to hold in their hearts as hallowed ground. As the words on the wall reminded me, we were all changed by one moment in time.

I had been there before. In the year following the explosion that caused the deaths of 168 men, women and children, my family and I visited the site. A temporary fence, erected to protect the spot was heavily laden with heart-wrenching personal mementos sent from all over the country by people who wished to offer condolences in the wake of the worst terrorist attack in our country's history.

I still remember how sad and overwhelmed I felt when I read the endearments, saw the wilted flowers, and touched the faces of the dead captured in photos and snapshots that had been preserved in plastic bags and tacked to the hurricane fencing. I also remember how I wept with my daughter and husband as we read the outpourings of love and sympathy from countless Americans who felt such a deep sense of loss in the senseless obliteration of so many innocent people.

I remember my feelings of helplessness when I left that memorial five years ago. This time, as I stood at the entrance to the permanent memorial, those same feelings once again washed over me.

I walked up a stone ramp. A marker indicates that the walkway around this site is lined with pieces of granite salvaged from remains of the Murrah building. At the top of the ramp, a doorway leads into the memorial. Stepping inside, the first thing I saw was a beautiful reflecting pool that stretches out hundreds of feet in front of me. The brochure says that this pool lies where NW Fifth Street used to be, the street that ran in front of the Murrah building. The pool, a long rectangle, is the largest part of the memorial.

In it, I see not only my own reflection but also that of most of the monument surrounding the pool. I could hear the sound of gently flowing water, although no movement could be seen in the pool. I found myself amazed at the instant sense of serenity it imparted.

As I walked out onto the memorial, I looked back at the entrance wall. Directly opposite this gate, at the far end of the memorial, there is an identical wall. Facing each other, these twin gates seem to be meaningful in some way. According to the brochure, these formal entrances to the memorial are called the gates of time. The east gate has the time of 9:01 etched at its top, the minute before the blast. The west gate has the time of 9:03, the minute after the blast.

Looking closer at the east wall, I discovered handprints of different sizes barely visible on the wall. Done in bronze paint and reaching from the ground up about ten feet, they are a chilling reminder that human suffering and death occurred in this place.

On the south side of the entrance, a grassy knoll rises up from the pool, secluded by a metal fence. Chairs made of bronze and stone occupy this knoll. The silence is profound. Arranged in nine rows, each chair bears the name of a man, woman or child killed in the explosion. The nine rows represent the nine floors of the building, and each chair is placed according to the floor on which that person either worked or was visiting at the time of the bombing.

The chairs appear to be floating above the ground, suspended in mid-air. Many are smaller and represent the children that were killed. My throat tightened up and tears filled my eyes. I thought of my two-year old granddaughter Nicole whom I have come to Oklahoma to visit. Around me, some people were whispering, some crying. Tears stung my eyes, too. I stayed for some time, praying for those lost souls. Are they at rest?

What about those left behind, mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles and grandparents? The list is endless; we all grieve their loss.

On the opposite side of the reflecting pool stands a large elm tree surrounded by a circular stone wall. The brochure says that this is the "survivor tree that bears witness to the violence of that day. It was surrounded by a parking lot filled with burning vehicles and survived the impact of the explosion, becoming an important symbol of resilience to the family members of those killed, survivors, rescue workers and people around the country." Beneath the tree is a small orchard of fruit trees. The flowering trees are part of what is called the Rescuer's Orchard, honoring "those thousands of people who responded from all over the country in the aftermath of the blast."

As I crossed the memorial and walked among the bright trees, a sense of hope began to fill me. The peace provided by this place is left undisturbed by the passage of many visitors. Although people are respectful, they are smiling and talking among themselves. Children laugh. It is in stark contrast to the other side of the memorial. It is filled with life.

In the far corner of the memorial is the Survivor Chapel. Sections of two remaining walls of the Murrah building have been left standing and are etched with the names of survivors of the explosion. The ragged edges of the walls border the area that was the playground for the children of the building's daycare center. Here again, as by the grassy knoll, quiet fills the space. A young couple walked through, pushing their toddler in a stroller. As I watched them pass, I wondered how many times a day the moms and dads of the 19 children killed here wish they could push their babies just one more time. I thought of Nicole again and all the joy she has brought to our lives. I was suddenly very sad.

Preparing to leave the memorial, I walked to the northern end where a yellow building stands with its windows painted black. This is the former Journal Record building that was across from the Murrah building. It now houses the Memorial Center and the Memorial Institute for the Prevention of Terrorism. The center includes exhibits of the bombing and its aftermath, including a children's exhibit and a memorial registry. It also includes a portion of one of the bomb-damaged offices in the building.

In front of the center is The Children's Area. It includes a wall of hand-painted tiles that were sent to Oklahoma City by school children from around the country during the first year after the bombing. Handprints on white tiles by children of all ages make up the wall, their various crayon-colors providing a bit of joy in an otherwise somber area. I thought about the vivid contrast that these hands make to those on the gates of the memorial.

After so much pain, devastation and death in this place, this memorial has somehow manages to bring back hope. The gaily-colored tiles emanate hope and love, and the children remind us that life goes on.

In front of this wall is a sunken area of slate tiles that forms a place for thought and remembrance. They have been placed as chalkboards for those who wish to leave thoughts and feelings. I walked through, reading the words of encouragement and love written by children that have visited: "We love you guys"..."Nineteen new angels"..."Nothing can kill the love"..."Why can't we all just get along?"..."Have a great day in heaven!"

Once outside, I crossed Robinson Street on my way to the car. Here on the corner, across from the west gate of the memorial, I discovered an imposing white concrete statue, bigger than life, surrounded by black stone pillars. It is the figure of a man with his back to the National Memorial. He is wearing a long garment and sandals. Although his face is buried in his hand, I suddenly recognized the likeness intended. Looking down at the base of the statue, I read three simple words engraved in the black stone at its feet: "And Jesus Wept."

(For information, go to www.oklahomacitynationalmemorial.org or write to the Oklahoma City National Memorial, PO Box 323, Oklahoma City, OK 73101.)

(05-10-01) [[In-content Ad]]