The telephone breaks the frozen silence at 7:38 a.m. An early call for a Sunday.

Our eyes share a first thought: our son, a firefighter-paramedic for the city of Spokane, must be calling with his routine assurance at the end of his watch. Yet, I am not at once comforted. This call is an hour premature and I know he is working another shift.

It is our son, though, and his voice heralds apprehension. I grab for pieces of useless, maternal instinct that only land in that place in my stomach where my heart now beats.

He is safe, but we sense there is more to this call – and there is. He is not on duty again. He is going home, but he is not alone. With him still is the memory of the lifeless child his arms clutched earlier in the dense cold.

He speaks first of “the champions, the ladder crew” defying the inferno and pulling the silent form from the second-story window. He talks of shedding gear and receiving her, of his racing bare hands that still hold the heat of her flesh. And it strikes his heart.

They never gave up, he tells us, and the crew cherished at last a hint of guarded life. And they prayed for hope.

There is a moment of captured silence, and then we cry. His father and I cry for the image of a child lost through the eyes of our own; and we cry with pride. Our son’s tears are not unlike all rescuers this morning. They, too, have young families.

By the grace of the choices they made and honor daily, we do not share their world – we are their world. I know better, but my impulsive mother’s heart offers a faint “I’m so sorry.”

But with solemn conviction, I hear, “No, don’t be sorry, I’m OK.”

I wonder: How can they keep their eyes focused on casualties that make us turn our heads and come out OK? How do they not hesitate, but enter from where we flee, and come out OK? How is it they consciously and without prejudice risk life and future for the sake of serving humanity. And how, with humility, do they “go from zero to one hundred and back” in immeasurable time, and come out OK?

Our son didn’t talk about interrupted sleep at pre-dawn, or the fact that there may not have been time, since the last call, for sleep. He didn’t describe utter blackness or acrid, invasive plumes stealing the last light of the stars – or the firefighters’ own breath. He spoke of none of the obstacles that stood in their way.

Because nothing can stand in their way.

I am reminded of the first anniversary of Sept. 11 when a proud nation called them all “heroes.” That’s what I called our son that day but was stopped short.

“Did you thank everyone today for just doing their jobs? It’s what we do. There’s no place here for anyone expecting to become a hero.”

What I know is this: Our son and those like him are not martyrs, nor, as I am told, are they heroes. Still, this mother knows, without hesitation, that indeed they are angels.