Headlines
Adams: Katie would have Turned 40 this Week
Katie McCloskey would have turned the big 4 0 yesterday.
Katie had been on her new job as a computer technician on the 97th floor of the north Twin Tower for six weeks when her life ended during the September 11th attacks of 2001. The first plane hit almost directly where she was working.
The night before, she wrote this in her journal: “I made it! I thank God that I am in New York!”
It had been a dream of her and her childhood friend from kindergarten to live and work in New York City. After graduating from Indiana University with a bachelor’s degree in elementary education with a concentration in computer science, Katie drove her cherry red convertible to the Big Apple and landed the job. She marveled at the awesome view she had of the Statue of Liberty.
Katie is from South Bend, where I live. She graduated from John Adams High School, where my oldest daughter attended. Over the years I have hosted several group tour trips to New York City and I always take them to her name engraved at the 9 11 Memorial.
It is a powerful moment to stand there and see all those names, as the soothing sounds of the nearby waterfalls cascade where the towers once stood.
We had yucky icy winter weather yesterday here in South Bend. While many grumbled about how difficult the challenges of the day were, Katie’s grave lay quiet with the snow atop it, and birthday balloons by it.
Katie was just 25 when the sudden attacks ended her life. She would have loved to be here today dealing with icy roads. Her sister Leslie still drives Katie’s convertible and, understandably, for years struggled wondering what kind of kids Katie would have had and not getting to see her get older. Katie’s Dad, Dick, has refused to let Osama Bin Laden haunt him. When Bin Laden was finally killed and dumped off a ship, the phone rang in the middle of the night with news for Dick that Bin Laden was dead. Dick acknowledged the news and went right back to sleep. He has not focused on anger towards him, but making positives out of the horror. A scholarship fund in Katie’s memory has put and continues to put many young people through college.
When the McCloskeys were walking through the ruins of 9 11 in hopes of a miracle of finding their daughter, they came across reporter Steve Lopez of the Los Angeles Times. He saw them as they were trying to light a candle, and as they were putting up pictures of their daughter. They met, and Dick implored Steve to “say good things” about the people who had lost their lives.
In late September of 2001, Lopez came to their home near South Bend. Here is what he wrote:
She drops her head; covers her face. “Katie,” she says sweetly, “we’re going to miss you terribly.”
The McCloskey house had been busy through last weekend with family, friends, and well-wishers, but it has grown quiet now. The ceremonial grieving has ended, and everyone in the room fears what comes next–the private retreats into their own hearts.
“It’s getting harder for me now,” says Dick McCloskey. “There’s a lot more time to think.”
Katie’s mother gathers me in with a crushed smile.
“For our enemies, I don’t know how they can live with such hate,” she says.
She and her husband preached tolerance, Anne McCloskey tells me. They told their children to accept grievances, but not grudges, both as family and as citizens of the world. Katie’s boyfriend, Richie Hayes, is black, and the McCloskeys asked him to represent them at Katie’s memorial service.
McCloskey isn’t finished. Out of pure love, she has to say what she’s about to say, because no one else is saying it. With pleading eyes, she says of her daughter’s killers:
“Forgive them.”
The pause seems like an eternity. McCloskey sits fallen, suffocated by grief, wanting no mother anywhere in the world to know her suffering.
“Forgive them,” she says again, “and let them know we care about them. I don’t want war. I don’t want to go kill them.”
Dick McCloskey stirs in his easy chair.
“We have got to get rid of terrorism,” he says firmly. “We can not have it in our society.”
“But there are so many of them,” says his wife of 33 years, crying at the thought of more spilled blood. “And the soldiers, the wives, the husbands. I just want to get along. I just want peace.”
“As fallen human beings we tend to do evil things of our own accord, but that’s our choice,” Dick once said. “That has nothing to do with God.”
Dick McCloskey died in June of 2014, joining his daughter in Heaven. He followed his passion of flying planes, and serving at the Center for the Homeless and for Hospice. He fulfilled the requirements to become a Stephen Minister at St. Pius X Church.
Life goes on and often in beautiful circles. A few years ago I was at the eye doctor and Bob Hillebrand was the ophthalmic technicianchecking on me. For some reason we got to talking about Katie and he told me the afternoon of the 9 11 attacks his daughter was born. She was named Katelynne, and has always been called Katie.
Dick McCloskey became a patient at the eye clinic. Bob knew his story and eventually brought up that his daughter, born September 11, 2001, was also a Katie. A few years ago on a birthday anniversary Dick and Anne drove over and met young Katie, and saw even a physical resemblance to their own Katie.
A few years ago, on the 9/11 anniversary, Dick McCloskey said shared one request of all of us that Katie would have liked:
“Just simply do something good for someone else today. If everyone would do that, just think of what a different world we would live in.”
Tax deductible contributions to the Katie McCloskey Memorial Scholarship Fund can to mailed to: Community Foundation of St. Joseph County, P.O. Box 837, South Bend, IN 46624-0837
Born in Oxford and educated at Ole Miss, Charlie Adams is a motivational speaker who specializes in sharing the fascinating back story of Lake Placid and the Miracle on Ice. His 90 minute to 2-hour presentation is filled with patriotism, the American dream, and the power of team. It is delivered to corporate, educational and church audiences. He can be reached at charlie@stokethefirewithin.com.