Thinking about the first biblical miracle that manifested in my life. The story of the loaves and the fishes came alive with sauce and spaghetti!

My 9/11 Experience

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Before becoming bed ridden, I lived and worked in lower Manhattan from 1995-2004, nearly seven years teaching kindergarten and nearly ten years living with my grandmother, Emily.

On the morning of 9/11, I felt St. Joseph’s RC School in Chinatown shake. My mind was juggling lesson plans, learning centers, pizza or dim sum for lunch? and beaming at a student who just ran up to me and said how he loved Jesus with his whole heart. How I adored my career choice and knew noping out of a job at NPR had been the right choice. I was in my element.

The librarian, Michael came downstairs with eyes like saucers and said there were reports of a commuter plane veering off course and hitting a tower of the World Trade Center. I realized that was the shaking of the over on hundred year old building and was tipped off by the often sarcastic librarian that a plane that small would not cause us to shake like that.

I took action. I had my students line up and called across the hall to my mentor and Pre-K teacher, Roseanne.

“Let’s head down to the basement. Something big is going down.” She calmly lined her class up and we descended the five flights to the basement/lunchroom. Minutes later, a group of about five or six gentlemen were milling about our payphone. I sent Roseanne over to investigate. She returned saying they were just here to use the phone. One by one, parents frantically came and retrieved their kids saying, “Miss Caruso, it’s really bad!”

I immediately felt a wave of perfect peace overcome me. I began singing hymns with both classes, and told the children that something really bad has happened, but they’re going to be okay. I said a prayer with them and told them if they got scared to say their prayers and Jesus would be with them.

I grew up in a largely conservative Catholic home, attended Catholic schools myself, and spent the majority of the eighties doing duck and cover drills in case the Cold War came to be. That was partly why I was in the basement. If a school desk was adequate coverage in an attack, surely a basement was better. I still admire the schools for coming up with a drill that gave us a sense of safety, albeit inadequate.

Soon all of my students were picked up, and just then my younger sister, Sharon Caruso Sadler came looking for me. I hugged our cafeteria worker as she continued preparing the children’s lunches. But after she went outside, her dark complexion was sheet white as she fell into my arms sobbing. "We will be okay. God has this." I said. She relaxed a bit and smiled. She never smiled.

Roseanne hugged me goodbye, uncertain if or when we’d see one another again. We did, and she’s been an inspiration and taught me so many things about teaching, classroom management, and how to keep a straight face after getting barfed on by a student who ate too much birthday cake. I regret not wearing socks that particular day.

Sharon grabbed a tray of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and we passed the gentlemen and exchanged hellos. We went up to Ms. Anna’s classroom where many of the classes congregated, and passed out the sandwiches. My principal said I could leave since my class had all been dismissed.

As I walked down Madison street, scores of people were walking up the street in a daze, covered in white powder in varying states of panic and shock. I’ll never forget one man with an enormous gas mask on. He took it off as he walked toward me and stared right through me. Had I not stepped to the side he may very well have walked through me.

My thoughts went to my priest from St. James, the late Fr. Rafael Corneil. He had type two diabetes and my first mission was to check on him to see if he was okay.

My church had an ambulance out front, and bleeding, ash covered people were going in to have their wounds cared for. My dear friend and gym teacher for Transfiguration and St. James, Coach Jackie Maher, was hosing people down, mostly getting ash from their eyes. St. James school which sat directly across the street from St. James church, had nuns and children passing out milk, fruit, and water bottles to passersby.

My sister and I began to help after knowing our priest was safe. I looked across the street from the school where my grandmother’s apartment was, and saw blue NYPD barricades blocking access to downtown. Manning that particular barricade was two of the gentlemen whom I’d seen at my school that morning. They were undercover NYPD detectives. I approached with a smile and gave them some water. It was rounding up to about 11:00am and I said,"You guys must be starving! I have four brothers and they'd be looking in the pantry right about now. Let me order you guys a pizza." One detective smiled like I read his mind. He was watching my face as my flip phone refused to connect my call. Little did I know a major cell tower was on top of one of the buildings that fell, making all cell calls impossible.

I had gotten it in my head to go buy cups to pass out now that the school’s supplies were depleted. I sent Sharon home to get a tray of sandwiches from baby Adele’s christening the day before. They insisted we take the leftovers, and as Sharon went to each nearby barricade and passed out sandwiches, I was grateful and blessed by the abundance. Although I could walk, my feet were getting sore. As I filled the last cup of water after buying out the bodega’s supply, I decided to go home and change my shoes.

As I left my post outside my church at the entrance to our church hall in the church basement, another familiar detective’s face from that morning passed me to go use the restroom, as Fr. Corneil had specifically opened the church hall so people had a place to stop.

I am greeted by my then eighty six year old grandma with a big smile and a hug and told her how Coach Jackie was hosing people down. She immediately produced a bag of giveaway clothing that she had meant to donate but hadn’t yet. God’s timing. I later gave the bag to Coach Jackie Maher and couldn’t help but giggle at a six foot tall man wearing my five foot two grandmother’s black polyester pants that came mid calf and her flowered turtle neck.

I changed my shoes and said how we had enough sandwiches to feed the detectives and some passers by, but I wanted to do more. Grandma then produces her stash of pasta and Classico spaghetti sauce. I piled it my arms, kissed her goodbye, and made my way to the church hall where there’s a full kitchen. As I passed the detectives I said,"Dinner will be early but soon!" And pulled various pots and pans and began doing one of my most favorite things, cooking!

Now we had fed about ten to fifteen people from the sandwich platter. I only had a few skinny boxes of pasta, and a few jars of sauce. Some friends from the neighborhood went around to tell the officers that dinner was ready. A lifelong believer, I wasn’t quite prepared for the first of many miracles that would so bless me from 9/11 to December 15, 2001.

Each time I scooped a serving of pasta and sauce, three more officers would walk through the door. And each time I dipped my serving fork into the pot, it seemed to stay full. The sauce as well. The miracle of the loaves and the fishes came to mind and I fed between thirty five to forty officers. There was enough even for one man who hadn’t eaten all day and had just been relieved from his post to come eat. These heroes who had stood all day protecting us from the unknown were able to sit and eat and by then my hilarious sister had them all laughing and forgetting for a brief moment the chaos and the still burning embers in our now altered world outside.

As the hours passed and I cleaned the pots and dishes, our priest came downstairs from the attached rectory and said he was thinking about closing the church hall for the night. Sharon was a waitress at a popular pizza restaurant at the South Street Seaport, and was used to staying up until about three in the morning. Her restaurant as well as the Seaport would be closed for weeks. I asked Fr. Corneil if we could stay open so they could use the bathroom and take a seat. Sharon would stay up and I’d go home and get some sleep and come back in the morning. A detective stepped forward as our priest expressed concern for our safety and said he’d keep us safe. Fr. Corneil thanked him and went up to bed.

Most stores had shut down and there was no place to eat for a three mile radius. News of the bodega where I bought the cups came out that the owners were dancing and rejoicing at the attack. I would never shop there again. I had just missed a fist fight when a patriot socked the male owner in the nose.

Closer to my apartment was a bodega named, “Peter’s” Pete was a friendly old guy who growled at kids that ran in and out but always had a smile for me. On my way to the church hall I stopped and bought his supply of bacon, eggs, butter and rolls. While grandma was generous with her pantry, I didn’t want to leave her short.

Arms full, I began cooking at 7:00amand approximately one hundred police officers came through for breakfast. They were on sixteen hour shifts, and besides Peter’s bodega, the nearest large chain grocery store was three miles away.

I asked a few neighbors to hold down the fort and I bought groceries until last week’s paycheck was spent and my two carts of food would last a week. Sure enough, at week’s end we were out of food and I was out of money. My school closed for a week and in the meantime I went to my adviser, Sr. Joan, at Fordham University where I was earning my master’s degree in teaching. , I asked for the semester off. She seemed rather shocked but I knew God had me cooking at St. James and ministering to the officers and then troopers that were passing through. There was no question in my mind it was the right call. She signed me out and I took the subway from Lincoln Center all the way back downtown. A native of Las Vegas, NV, I have to note here that although I’d been living in Manhattan for six years by then, I hadn’t yet gotten a NY state ID. Taking a semester off was a wise move, as soon after, the only people allowed below Canal Street were those with an ID showing a current home address. The officers knew both me and my sister from both St. Joseph’s and St. James, so we were trusted to come and go past the barricades in our neighborhood without incident.

As the week came to a close, I began telling our heroes in blue that the church hall would soon be closing, as we were out of resources. Everyone was bummed, and a group of officers from the projects across the street from the church told me to hold that thought.

The next thing I know, their fifteen passenger police van pulled up with boxes of groceries that had been donated at that large chain grocery store where I had stocked up a week prior. Back in action!

All week I had been making chicken Parmesan, eggplant parmesan, Shepherd’s Pie, tacos, quesadillas and anything else I could think of to feed large groups of people.

Once my school opened, I had arranged an army of volunteers to hold the fort down while I was at work. We had tons of power bars, snacks, and drinks.

As soon as that food was gone, I again started letting everyone know that resources were low and we had to close. As I’m finishing my sentence, a huge semi truck pulls up and troopers and officers begin unloading box after box after box.

Tears streamed down my face as I was humbled by the outpouring of love from around the country. Letters from students in Oklahoma, California, Idaho, Michigan, Arkansas and more! Clothes, food, toys, supplies, snacks- the works.

So much togetherness and joy amidst a tragedy. We were considered Manhattan’s “best kept secret” as amazing donations of air mattresses and pillows and blankets filled the usual dance floor. God shows up in the bleakest of times and uses us for His glory. As I watched folks come together around a tragedy, I’m reminded of how great America can be!

Today is like being in a time portal. Looking back on all the people we fed in the Spirit and with old family recipes. The togetherness was the feeling that we were all old friends. Long lost family. Brothers and sisters.

Many sent prepared dishes to St. James, and FEMA wanted to take over at one point. We declined as we wanted to make sure we could still pray with these officers troopers, and a few displaced residents. A couple came for some food on their way back downtown to try to find their cat. Many local residents came to eat and chat alongside these brave officers.

One night, Sergeant drove Sharon and I down to Ground Zero. There were tents surrounding the site that had food for the first responders. Many welders reverently dismantling the steel. We were handed a rock from the rubble. It had its place of honor among family photographs on a shelf in my grandma’s apartment.

Being at Ground Zero was the first time I was able to shed tears for the lost. I had steeled myself for the work at hand and with God’s peace upon me, had no fear. But the overwhelming smell of burning steel and the somber faces of the clean up crew touched my heart to where the magnitude of all that happened and all who perished overwhelmed me. Our time was up, and as we left we met some military officers who had been sleeping on the grass in Battery Park City, further downtown from Ground Zero. That night and for a few more, they slept on the air mattresses that had been anonymously donated. God knew.

The next day, as I was walking up Madison street near the end of September, when many NY State Troopers had come in to relieve the detectives and officers manning the barricades. I heard,"Tisa!? Is that you?!" I look up, and the dad of the baby Adele who's christening we had attended, and had provided the sandwiches we fed the officers was before me. "Hey Steve! Fancy meeting you here!"

He said he’d heard about what we were doing from my grandma, his Aunt, but didn’t realize we were so close! Ground zero was ten blocks to our south and he was manning a barricade close to where I had seen the man with the gas mask days earlier. On his next break he came to St. James and ate the first home cooked meal since he’d been rotating to different barricades in the downtown area. Every intersection had a barricade. Hundreds upon hundreds of officers and troopers protected our great city. Everyone in America was a New Yorker, and every New Yorker showed up in a big way.

Steve was one of the many troopers we fed. And when Thanksgiving rolled around, upwards of ten turkeys were donated. Game on! My sister, Sharon makes the most amazing melt in your mouth turkey. She had the church hall oven, the rectory oven, and the oven in grandma’s apartment filled with Butterballs.

I made pans and pans of stuffing, mashed potatoes, corn, you name it. In several shifts throughout the day, hoards of officers and troopers came in and celebrated with us. The church hall was an oasis of sorts.

Several said it was so delicious, and to be away from their families on that day, they were grateful for the food that was, “better than the hotel” that was also feeding them at the time.

My mother Susan had flown in from Las Vegas both in early October as soon as she could get a flight and then again for Thanksgiving, and joined us for dinner. She rolled up her sleeves and cooked, cleaned, and had a few laughs with our new family.

There was a dark time when a young gentleman came in with a backpack to “use our restroom.” He was sketchy at best, and had a scary and creepy vibe. Three of the detectives ran into the bathroom after he left and found a box cutter hidden behind the toilet tank. They took off down the street after him. I don’t know what became of him but I wasn’t scared. I felt safe in the company of so many men and women with their head on a swivel and bravery in their hearts.

Early on in our work, Coach Jackie Maher had set up a chair near the entrance and watched who entered the church hall. Among all of these brave officers, an unlikely hero emerged. That man swept the entire church hall nightly, took out trash and helped maintain the hall. One of many wonderful volunteers from our community who stepped up.

I used to have a book with everyone’s names, some phone numbers as Facebook wasn’t around then. It has been lost, so to thank each person individually was my intention. But they know who they are and I’m grateful to have been able to work alongside them as we provided fellowship to those keeping our city safe.

Louise and Kostas Mavrianos sent several platters of food, St. Teresa’s made bowls of pasta salad, my mother made her famous cornbread among other things, and many volunteered their time to keep the church hall running.

I’ll be forever grateful to God for calming my heart in that chaos. For allowing me to step up and serve. Many thanks to my ever hilarious sister, Sharon for making everyone laugh. And if only briefly, overcoming the darkness outside.

The NY State troopers sent a town car to pick up Fr. Corneil, Sharon, my grandmother, and myself. We were driven upstate to an award ceremony, where Fr. Corneil was honored with a plaque, thanking St. James for our efforts during one of the most tragic events in our then recent history. It hangs in the rectory at St. James to this day.
God showed up! To God be the glory, honor, and praise!

While this pandemic may eclipse September 11th in devastation, nothing can eclipse the power of God to overcome. So many stepping forward and helping their fellow man at this time is such hope. Love is what this country is about. As survivors recover from this long quarantine, and mourn the dead, our collective love as a great country will propel us into togetherness and solidarity. My prayer is that love eclipses hate, and loving our neighbor is paramount.

We pray for all of us affected by this pandemic. And for all those affected by 9/11, we will never forget.