Calling for Help
The Lord said: “Call to me and I will answer you …” (Jeremiah 33:3)
The Plectron fire-alert tones pierced our house’s late-afternoon silence. It was a call for help.
After the tones, the dispatcher's voice could be heard, announcing to the firefighters the nature of the call: “This is KEG508 Dix Hills Fire Department on the air with a signal 23, wires down, on Ebbtide Lane.”
My brother Mike sprang into action. He hopped into our green '68 Mustang, turned on the blue flashing firefighter's light, and headed for the firehouse. When he got there, he and the other firefighters would normally jump onto a fire truck and head towards whatever emergency call might await. But not this time.
Just ahead of Mike, our good friend Thomas Kowalski was in his forest green pickup truck, with a similar blue light on top of his truck. In New York State, volunteer firefighters use these lights to alert other cars that they are on an emergency mission — with the hope that other drivers will extend courtesies so they can get to the emergency call faster. But not this time.
My Friend Tom Kowalski
As Mike and Thomas responded to the call on that late-October evening, the sun was symbolically setting. As Thomas neared the fire station, he had one final left turn to make, which meant crossing two lanes of oncoming traffic. The driver in the first oncoming lane saw his blue light and stopped to let Thomas make the turn. This shielded Thomas, as well as the driver in the second oncoming lane, from seeing one another. The setting sun may have made it even harder for them to see. Tragically, the oncoming car drove full-speed into the passenger side of Thomas's pick-up truck, and he was killed instantly.
The Kowalski brothers and my brother Mike and I grew up playing together most everyday. In fact, we had been in the big field up behind our houses playing football just an hour before this tragic call. In those teen years we were also in the fire department's cadet program together with Thomas and one of his brothers. We trained with the firemen, helped clean and wax the trucks, and enjoyed the great camaraderie (and meals!) at the fire house. Once we reached age 17, we could become full-fledged firefighters. Mike and Thomas were first.
On their seventeenth birthdays, Thomas and Mike proudly got their official turnout gear (coat, boots & helmet), Plectron alert radios, and blue lights for their personal vehicles. They battled brush fires and structure fires together, responded to ambulance calls and car accidents, and enjoyed the deep friendships that tend to happen when serving boldly with others. Mike and Thomas got to live out their dream, and I looked forward to the day when I could follow in their footsteps. We all knew that this was serious business which came with much responsibility and real dangers. But we were so young -- we didn't really understand just how dangerous it could be.
But then on that fateful night of October 30, 1978, we suddenly learned a mortal lesson about real danger. I remember feeling so numb as our boyhood world was forced to grow up so suddenly. Because it was a line-of-duty death, there were huge formalities with thousands of firefighters from across the state and even some from other parts of the country. At age 15, reeling from the shocking loss of a childhood friend, I did my best to wear my cadet uniform proudly and march in the processions. I stood as tall and as stoic as I could as Thomas’ casket quietly-yet-heroically rode high on top of the hose bed of our carefully polished fire truck.
But all the while, I was baffled. It was so surreal. Where was Thomas? I knew he was dead. I saw his casket buried, with so many honors. But where was he? I had deep questions. This could have been a time of meaningful conversations about life and death, and it could have led me to making real progress in understanding God and advancing my fledgling faith. But I didn’t know what to do with my questions, or who to turn to, or even what my questions were exactly. So I didn't end up turning to God at all in this painful time. I didn't turn to anyone.
My silence was a call for help that no one could hear. Or so I thought …
[scroll down for author’s reflections and some questions to ponder]
REFLECT:
Thanks for listening to my story. Writing about it takes me back in time and helps me heal. I invite you to join me on this journey by pondering the following questions to help you reflect on your own hardships and journey of healing. And maybe click below to play the song we heard at Thomas’ funeral as you reflect on your own experiences.
What are a few hardships and hurts that you have faced in your life?
What has been your experience talking about hardships and hurts with others? Who have you been able to open up with, and how did that go?
Who do you wish you could be more open with? What might you benefit from talking about with a safe friend or loved one?
What has been your experience of talking to God about hard things you have been through? If you could spend a few minutes with God right now (and you can), what would you tell him or ask him?
Further Reflections
When I read my brother Mike a draft of this story, he recounted a lasting memory from the scene of the accident. Though the high-speed collision had mangled both vehicles, the blue strobe light atop Thomas' pickup truck somehow continued to spin eerily and send out its silent beam of light into the night. I never saw that accident scene, but Mike's recollection of that light pierced my heart, unlocking yet another corner of a trove of unexpressed thoughts and feelings that have gotten stuck inside me over the years. I know I am not the only one who experiences this difficulty, but I do wonder why it has been my path.
My family was very caring and supportive. But we didn't talk much about deeper things, at least not in my experience. Mom & Dad were from the "Great Generation" (coming of age in the World War II era), and their ancestry was a European mix of German, Irish-Catholic, and Polish-Jewish. They were hard-working and sacrificially loyal and loving. Growing up in their presence deeply shaped who we each became.
But Mom & Dad were also rather private. They had both experienced tragedy and hardship growing up, but such things were rarely discussed. Raising eight kids, they quietly weathered many challenges, including Mom's serious, chronic illnesses. Our household grew quieter by the year as Mom's illnesses continued and as more of my older siblings moved out. And soon it was just Mike and me living at home with Mom & Dad.
While their love impacted me wonderfully, I was also impacted by the growing quiet. And with a more introverted personality myself, I guess it's not surprising that I learned to face things so quietly and privately as I grew up. Very early on, I fell into a pattern of believing I had to go it alone. So I worked hard at school, juggled multiple part-time jobs to save up for college, and mostly kept my heart to myself.
When Thomas died, I was a busy guy who had no idea how to process what I was experiencing and feeling. Mike and I talked about it a little, and I'm sure others in my family tried to reach out to me as well. But I don't remember ever talking about what was going on in my heart. And I didn't have any inclination to turn to God either. I basically weathered it alone. And this was a pattern that would recur as I faced other hardships, like the loss of my mom just a few years later.
I didn't know how or who to call for help.
This didn’t serve me well when Thomas died. Or when Mom died. Or as I entered adult life with its various peaks and valleys. Yet inside, I think my heart was desperately calling out for help -- just not out loud. My unexpressed calls for help naturally went unanswered.
But a time was coming when God himself would answer my quiet calls for help, and enable me to begin to learn to be more real with him and with others around me. And he would soon use this real writing I am doing now, as well as real time spent with various friends and family members, to help me discover and share things from my once-hidden troves of unexpressed calls for help.
So thanks for joining me on this journey by reading this. I pray it may somehow help you, too.
Like this story? Or have something you’d like to share with me?
I’d appreciate hearing your impressions and feedback below. Or send me a message about your own related experiences and insights. Thanks for joining the journey of discovery.
