Throw that Gauntlet Down

Sept 11, 2001

“Ray, I mean it. I'm leaving without you if you’re not down in thirty seconds! We’re going to be late.” Seventeen-year-old Hope Shipworth, Ray’s twin sister, impatiently shouted up the thickly carpeted stairs, her backpack slung over her shoulder, car keys dangling from her right hand.

Ray scrambled, throwing his gym shorts and tennis shoes in a bag, and yelled, “Come on, give me a minute.” He couldn't find his cross-country shirt. In the dirty clothes? Shoot. Today was an away meet, and he couldn’t run without it. He had to start being more organized.

Taking the steps two at a time, he raced down and rounded the corner into the laundry room, where he ran into his mom, holding out his soiled shirt.

“For goodness’ sake, keep the noise down. Your dad’s working on his sermon. Your voices could raise the dead,” she said with a slight grin and thrust the orange jersey into his hands. “You’re responsible for washing your clothes now, remember?”

“Yeah, I know. I just keep forgetting.” He grabbed the polyester pullover by the mesh lining and sniffed. The smell was like balled-up dirty socks. Maybe he’d have time to rinse the shirt in the school’s bathroom sink and let it dry in his locker during classes, or maybe the coach wouldn’t notice the odor, the grime around the neckline, or the sweat stains under the armpits. The recent talk about representing your school by how you dressed and behaved came back to him. This day wasn’t getting off to a good start. He gave his mother a quick peck on the cheek and ran out the front door, trying to catch Hope before she pulled out of the driveway.

The morning was crystal-clear, the kind that often goes underappreciated by youth. The Sooner State’s prolonged warmness, a reluctance to let go of summer, continued to nourish its trees’ food factories, rendering the leaves a spectrum of lush, varied greens. Autumn’s cooling process, which would ignite the foliage with golden yellows, crimson reds, and burnt oranges, was over eight weeks away.

Per her usual pattern, his twin sister quickly cycled through the favorite pre-programmed stations on their shared 1991 eggplant-colored Pontiac Grand AM.

“Hey, stop there!” Ray said. Hope did this every morning on the way to school—the driver got to choose the station, and the first one ready to leave in the morning got to drive. No matter how hard he tried, Ray was always a minute or two behind her. This channel surfing drove him crazy, and she knew it. Again, another reason to get his act together. “Stop, Hope! Go back one station—something about a plane hitting a building in New York.”

“Come on. Is this news? In a city as big as that, this was bound to happen. One of those sightseeing helicopters, probably.” Even as she protested, her sturdy finger punched the previous button.

Information flowed in and expanded. What was thought to be a small plane hitting an insignificant structure, turned into a large, 159-foot-long, wide-body (with a seven-a-breast cross-section) airliner, slamming into one of New York’s tallest, most recognized buildings—The North Twin Tower. What was considered an isolated, accidental event turned into something organized and horrific.

Ray pointed out an empty parking spot near the back of the lot, grateful there was one left this close to the start of class. Hope accelerated into the space and slammed the brakes.

Within moments, they huddled around Ray’s homeroom teacher’s television on wheels. In one of those jarring flashes seared into memory like a livestock brand, Ray saw the South Tower sliced in half by another 767 as the digital school clock flashed a bright red 8:03. With this, he had two simultaneous thoughts: class starts in two minutes, and our country is under attack.

There is the shared experience of witnessing a typical day unravel, seeing airliners dissect erect buildings, firefighters rushing up smoke-clogged stairwells, even as dazed masses stream down, out into a world so thick with clouds of dust that all move as ghosts. Then there is the personal immersion, where what you perceive sets in motion a series of internal responses. In this private, complex space, Ray made a decision.

****

Pastor Shipworth finished saying grace, and the nuclear family of four had their utensils poised for meatloaf action when he began expounding on what this day had wrought. Ray raised a singular eyebrow at his twin sister, who lifted both eyebrows (try as she might, she had never mastered the single eyebrow lift) in return. They knew their father would not be able to resist interjecting his views on the day’s events. Family dinners were often a testing ground for observations and invectives that later became Sunday sermons. The twins were not disappointed. Today proved to be no exception. Their eyebrow exchange, or lack thereof, was a silent form of communication.

Bertrand Shipworth was a stalwart man, a five foot ten inch indomitable force, almost as wide as he was tall. He ran his household, church, and the personal lives of his family and congregation with exacting discipline. He would vigorously cheer you on if you adhered to his structured expectations. And nothing was better than having his support and approval. You felt on top of the world when he was on your side. Ray and Hope, his only children, spent their childhood vying to be in this spotlight and worthy of his praise. Yet the moment you veered off course, even a fraction, he became a bulldog. With ferocious and unyielding tenacity, he would not relent. Once you returned to the straight and narrow, he graciously yielded. He saw this as his God-given mission. While the Shipworth twins admired, respected, and sometimes feared him, as they edged toward adulthood and their worldview expanded beyond the confines of the church and home, they began to see their father in a shifting light.

“Evil is real.” A smear of mashed potatoes clung to the edge of his mouth. “Today's events just underscore that the apocalypse is imminent.” He wiped his face. “Archangel Michael will soon spread his wings in the lofty clouds and wearing God’s armor will defeat the devil as predicted in Revelations. We must put our house in order and be prepared.”

Ray saw the scene vividly in his mind, replicating a relief done by Christoph Daniel Schenck he’d seen in Art History. The Archangel Michael held a flaming sword over his head as he straddled the cowering devil. To Ray, he looked like an unconquerable, mythic hero. The devil exuded terror with his tongue hanging out of his open mouth and startled, lurching eyes. As evil descended into open flames, his clawed hand frantically reached out. Whether to hang on, or perhaps in a final attempt to pull Michael down, Ray couldn’t tell.

“The true test is now.” Pastor Shipworth reached for a second serving of potatoes and meatloaf. “We must remain faithful, despite this world filled with violence, despite our future suffering. God, the creator, the redeemer, will be victorious. He will reign.”

Good and evil, these concrete concepts were immutable. Ray was raised believing this. How to differentiate between the two was found in the Bible, God’s Law. The delineations were clear-cut and non-negotiable.

Ray drew on the inner strength he felt when running unencumbered through the woods of Eastern Oklahoma. He recognized a deep sense of patriotism, an emerging warrior spirit. Despite the opposition he would undoubtedly face, he knew what to do. When he was sure his father had finished, out of respect, you never interrupt your elders, he took a drink of water and said, “As soon as I graduate, I am enlisting.”

Hope audibly gasped, her eyes widening in shock.

Ray’s father put down his fork with measured fortitude and stared at his son. “The hell you are.” Then he hurriedly looked away, as though the sight of Ray was something he could no longer endure.

“This is my calling, Dad.” Ray knew he had to speak now, or he would never find the strength to stand up to him. “You raised us always to do the right thing, even if it’s uncomfortable or unpopular. That’s what I’m doing. Look at what happened today. Our country needs men who are willing to sacrifice everything. I can’t just sit back and do nothing. I’ll volunteer, do my duty, then return. After today, it’s the least I can do.”

“You are so damn naïve. Ray, this is a knee-jerk reaction. Your life will change forever.”

“What do you know about being a soldier? You lecture us behind a safe pulpit. You said you’d be proud if we lived a life of service. Well, that’s what I want to do.”

The gauntlet was thrown. Ray wasn’t surprised by his father’s response for he held a fundamental belief. The religious conviction had been curated over generations, and was honed in his father’s lifetime—violence was incompatible with his Christian faith.

Adhering to the commandment “Thou shalt not kill,” Pastor Shipworth had counseled countless young men in his congregation to avoid the military, instructing them that there were other ways to serve one’s nation. And Ray knew his father would try to change his mind. He would convince him that joining the armed services could be done in a non-combative way. A mechanic, medic, or communication expert were examples. Ray wasn’t opposed to this, but he wasn’t giving his father the satisfaction, at least not on this day when their country had been attacked.

“Maria and Hope, please excuse my foul language,” he said, dismissing Ray with a slight flick of his fork. Ray could tell his father, though displeased, was confident in his ability to manipulate his son, confident that by the time Ray turned eighteen, he would forget this enlistment nonsense. His father knew how to work his son; he had worked him his entire life.

Pastor Shipworth continued heartily ingesting his meal, acting as if the conversation and the day’s events held little significance, as if nothing of consequence had transpired.

Ray stared at the congealing meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and peas turning cold on his dinner plate. Something had irrevocably shifted.

Even in its infancy, an immense longing for service to others and his country burned inside him. Though merely a flicker, it seared, leaving him eager and unafraid.