I awakened suddenly as the

urgent ringing of telephone rudely interrupted my peaceful slumber at

about 5:30 a.m. on that cold, dreary day. As a law enforcement chaplain,

I am often called to the scene of tragedies and this was one of those

calls. I quickly dressed and stepped out into the drizzling rain which

had fallen throughout the night. The temperature was a bone-chilling 33

degrees, just one degree above snowfall. I started the nearly frozen automobile,

wrapped my heavy coat around me, pulled on my gloves, stuck a seldom-worn

hat on my head and drove into the blackness of the night that had, so

far, refused to yield to the coming dawn.

fire, which had engulfed several apartments, the car was warm. Reluctantly,

I parked the black Malibu near the police and fire vehicles and stepped

out again into the frigid rain. The smell of smoke hung heavily in the

air and the flashing blue and red light of over a dozen vehicle provided

the eerie illumination. A frantic man was wondering out loud what he was

going to do while a police officer promised another that she would call

in the Red Cross.

I soon discovered that Peachtree

City firefighters had been battling the blaze for some three hours without

relief. While most of the fire was out, a number of firefighters battled

hot spots in the now-dangerous and unstable structure. Just under half

a dozen apartments were destroyed and not all the residents would escape

with their lives.

Two soot-covered firefighters

sat shivering in the cab of a fire truck looking completely exhausted.

Others were wearily hauling out furniture of the less damaged dwellings,

hoping to save as many of the victim's possessions as possible. Several

spent firefighters, clothed in T-shirts, sat on the street, slumped in

exhaustion, their heavy fire-retardant coats peeled off as the steam rose

from their weary backs, which were still being pelted with rain in near-freezing

temperatures.

Other firefighters made their

way through the second story of the still burning apartment looking for

survivors or, failing that, for more victims. One, overcome by the heavy

smoke, hung his body out the window and vomited.

A row of name tags rested on

the tailgate of a pickup truck. I asked what these were and a man said

that anyone who went into the building had to leave his nametag behind

so that they would know who was inside the burning building. One nametag

was melted beyond recognition, a reminder of how hot the flames were and

how close one man had been to the inferno, even before he went inside.

I was told that a victim had

been found. As I was led into the apartment, I could see the sadness on

the faces of those who had been battling so hard to save every life. I

took off my sodden wool hat, stood over the victim, quietly prayed, and

administered "last rites," or prayers of commitment to God.

Both firefighters and police personnel stood quietly and respectfully.

One police officer brushed away a tear. Several softly said, "Amen,"

at the end of the prayers as I made the sign of the cross. Then the battle

for domination over the fire and the search for others continued.

I stood in awe at these men

and women who so willingly rushed into danger where others ran away from

it. Cold, battered, exhausted, and wet, these firefighters fought fearlessly

to contain and douse the flames and these same men and women walked courageously

into blacked and smoke-filled buildings to search for total strangers

who might still be trapped inside.

It's not the size of the

building but the size of the heart that propels men and women into the

flames. It takes no less courage to enter a burning apartment building

in Peachtree City than to does to enter two burning towers of glass and

steel in New York City. Each entry offers the possibility of a hellish

catastrophe.

Finally, a couple of hours

later, I walked