Recently my 5 year old daughter came through the front door after school with quite the frown on her face. I asked her why she looked so sad and she sheepishly made her confession, “I turned yellow today.” Her school has a new color-code behavior policy, where green means the student is behaving well, yellow is a warning, orange is a loss of some privilege, and so on.
So, as sweet and well-behaved as she normally is, I was quite curious as to why her color changed to yellow. She went on to tell me that she received her color change because she was waving her art project in the hall and also talking in the hall, which is against the rules. Well, her art project was a black-and-white checkered racing flag. So, put a checkered flag in a kindergarteners hand and tell her not to wave it? Can you spell entrapment? But she knows that the voice level in the hallways is zero–that means silence. Now, I’m not one to really hound my kids on small stuff, especially when they’ve already gotten some kind of reprimand. So, I went right to talking with her about what she might do the next time she’s in the hallway and wants to talk. I said, “When you feel like you want to say something to your friend in the hallway, just pretend your lips have a zipper and you zip it up until you’re allowed to talk.” She looked at me with a straight face and said, “But Daddy, my zipper broke!”

On September 11th, 2001 I was finishing up a breakfast meeting with a fellow youth pastor, Nick Simpson at a great little spot on Broadway in Nyack, NY where I lived. The spot was called “Strawberry Place”. I can’t remember what I had to eat but when we walked up to the counter to pay for our breakfast, we found ourselves in the horrific shock of all the other humans around us at that moment. Nyack is in the shadow of New York City, a small town nestled directly on the Hudson River. In fact, the backyard of our home WAS the Hudson River. And in this bedroom town of NYC, we felt the shockwaves of steel colliding with steel just minutes away. I left Strawberry Place immediately and went directly to the church office. Hysterics of the attacks were there, too. Right away, our church office became a clearinghouse of sorts for the donations of supplies that would be needed in the rescue and recovery efforts at Ground Zero. One of my youth ministry interns was a volunteer EMT and he went directly into the city as soon as he could to offer his help. He was assigned a number and it was written in bold black permanent marker on all his limbs, for obvious reasons.

This morning, 6 years later to the day, I woke up with a kind of involuntary somberness. The morning seemed heavy and a smile seemed unnatural and forced. It was as if my subconscious knows precisely what day it is and knows exactly what happened on this day.

I poured my morning coffee and as I turned on my under-the-cabinet tv in the kitchen, the screen warmed and dissolved into the very imagery I just want to erase but can never forget. For me, like many–there is burned to our psyche the image of a living person freefalling next to the World Trade Center. Unfathomably faced with the choice of burning to their death or falling to their death. As much as I can grasp that, the logic seems to say that the latter would be quick while the former would be excruciating and drawn out. Nevermind that. Imagine having to make that choice at all. I was sickened all over again this morning in my kitchen, 6 years from the fact, but thrust right back to that day. I felt anger and hatred welling up in my heart and mind toward the people who birthed the thought, planned the day, and carried out the act. As a man of God, I’m ashamed to say that I have thought terrible thoughts, profane thoughts, and unholy thoughts toward those who terrorized America that day–and in some way, every day following since.

I stewed there for several minutes this morning in my kitchen. Until I somehow put it aside to get on with the day, caring for getting the kids breakfast and off to school on time. Later today though, I just couldn’t not think more about that hatred I’ve felt. And then it happened. A thought that perhaps thousands, even millions have thought. Those, at least, who know and understand something of the character of God. And this God is not the god of extremist Islam. This God is not the god who turns planes into missile bombs. This God is the God of the Bible. This God is the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob. This God is the triune perfection–the Creator of the universe and the ground we walk on and the air we breathe. And this God loves those who hated America enough to so atrociously attack it. God loves them. God loves them. God loves them with an everlasting love. God loves them. God’s Son, Jesus–whoa this is hard to embrace–died for those men who took control of those planes.

The love of God has never been dependent on reciprocation. And whether humans deny the very existance of God or acknowledge Him to whatever degree, He loves. He reaches. He just loves.

Did the events of September 11th 2001 anger this God? I truly believe that they did. I believe this God seaths with anger toward any injustice, let alone one of this magnitude. I believe God mourned and grieved that day the way He mourns and grieves every day over the lostness of His creation.

This day in history will never ever be forgotten. No one will allow history not to tell the events of this day every year on this date, if not every day of every year. It’s just too large to let go of.

But here in the mourning, a choice is made–we either stay in hatred; willing the very fire of hell to burn hotter over the flesh of those who flew those planes; Or we take the side of their Creator. We choose to redeem this day, to redeem this memory, and to redeem this country.

This past weekend, I drove my family (6 of us total) down to NC to visit my mom’s mom who we lovingly refer to as “Grammy”. Several weeks ago, Grammy had a massive stroke which essentially wiped out most of her brain. I was there with her within just two days of the stroke and hadn’t seen her since. I knew I was in for quite a visit. She has moved from teetering on the verge of death due to her initial inability to swallow and her clearly documented desire not to be attached to any type of artificially life prolonging equipment, including a feeding tube–to now able to somewhat look around, recognize people, and speak–well, kind of.

When we arrived at the nursing home, we walked to the hall where her room was and could already hear her. My mom had told us that her speech is very limited. In fact, her two words she’d repeat are “No Way!” So, I could hear her speaking long before I saw her in her bed. But to hear her speak was wonderful simply because it is her voice. It’s astounding to see her respond to questions and things we say–all with a variety of inflections, intonations, and emotions wrapped up in those two words, “No Way!”

I turned the corner of her room door and looked in. When she was able to focus on me, she stopped talking and just puckered up. I leaned down and kissed her and sat and talked with her for a few minutes. Well, as long as the response was “No Way”. What astounds me is that when we’d begin to sing a song, she could sing anything beautifully. As long as a word was in the context of a song, she could form it. We sang “You are my Sunshine”, “America the Beautiful” and even “Happy Birthday” since it was my Mom’s birthday that day.

What is it about the brain that would chain her mouth to only speak “No Way” and yet unchain her mouth to sing any song you’d like? It was simply incredible to watch.

Ironically enough, it is the same situation we’re in with our youngest son, Hudson. He can sing any tune he knows, but can’t truly carry on a conversation with you. I shared with my wife this morning how baffling I find that and she told me that its because those two things (singing and speaking) are not cerebrally related to one another at all–they literally come from two different parts of the brain.

The doctors and those caring for Grammy have said it may be as many as 6 years before she returns to normalcy in speech and functionality. 6 years.

Well, blogging again after such a hiatis would seem that I’d have much to say. And I think I do. Unearthing it will be the challenge. Let’s see.

First, this past Saturday night, our family took communion together within the church service that we were a part of. This particular night, the communion was set up as a “come and get it” kind of station near our seats. So as a famiy, we gathered ’round and each took up a wafer and dipped it in the juice (representative of Jesus’ body and blood, broken and shed for the forgiveness of our sins). My son Crews though, in a moment of childish innocence, taught me an unshakable lesson when he dipped his wafer into the cup, took a bite, and then proceeded to dip again. Without thinking, we stopped him from “double dipping” the wafer. But the truth is, he just wanted more. The first nibble of this quarter-sized wafer soaked in grape juice wasn’t enough for him. Crews’ action that night reminded me that I ought to constantly and passionately want more. When I so nicely and neatly take my little Jesus wafer and politely dip it into the sweet little cup of juice, my son would much rather take Jesus by the handful and stick his face down in the cup! I’m such a nice person–way too nice, perhaps to be that reckless with my love and desire for more of Him. It makes me think that Jesus didn’t come to make me nice. He came to make me crazy. He came to make me culturally incorrect. He came to make me careless and carefree about who sees me loving Him and living for Him. He came to call me into a life of double-dipping.

While on vacation last week, one of the things we experienced was a coal mine tour. It was an incredible experience to be under so much earth and to learn exactly how miners operate below our feet! As a part of the tour, our guide shared briefly about the situation in Utah with the collapses that have happened and that he himself knows of miners who have been trapped for extended periods of time. In a strange somber tone, he shared about how all miners he’s spoken with or heard of who have been in that trapped position–in total darkness–all testify to “seeing” the image of the Virgin Mary present with them. I wasn’t sure what to do with that information. I still don’t.

Another day, we went to Knoebels Amusement Park. My son had been so excited to ride the “kiddie coaster” (It had a different, more death-defying type of name, but I don’t remember it). So, bursting with excitement he turned to me to be his partner–assuming that Dad would have no problem handling such a ride as this. Little did he know that Dad DID have a big problem with this invitation–little did he know that when Dad was a kid, but still way too old for this to happen, Dad had to have the ride operator STOP the ride on a kiddie coaster exactly like this one. Dad kids you not. These little cars looked like little coffins as we inched in line closer and closer to the metal beast. And those cars looked so small.

What do YOU do with fear? I’ll also pause here and share that one year earlier, I was in the exact same line with the exact same son and as we got closer to riding the exact same kiddie coaster, I had to call for my wife to step in and take my place–because I had the exact same fear and the exact same feeling of a panic attack coming on. So, what did I do with the fear this year? I laughed at it and celebrated it. As we moved closer to climbing on board the coffin coaster, I turned to my son, and told him, “Crews, let’s see who can yell the loudest on the ride!” We stepped right up, and climbed in and pulled that lap bar down and began to roll forward up the first hill. You know what? The car wasn’t that small. The hill wasn’t that high. The ride wasn’t bad at all. In fact, I had a blast going round and round with my son, yelling and screaming, and generally making a spectacle of myself—laughing at fear.

This weekend, we’re leaving a weeklong vacation. And I don’t know what people think about pastors, but we need vacations, too. And I’m feeling it. I’m due for a break.

We’re heading up to PA to my wife’s parent’s house. They’re in FL, so we’ll be going to an empty house. But that’s o.k. We’ve got plans. We’ll be going to Knoebels a couple of days. They kids are so excited for that! And we’re also stopping off at Hershey Park for the tour through the chocolate factory. It’s a free tour that ends with free chocolate. What’s better than that?

Throw in a couple trips to Hi-Ho, Berrigan’s and other local musts, and you’ve got a vacation that’s just what the doctor ordered.

This morning at breakfast, my 10 year old daughter asked us if she could have her own email address. To really appreciate the significance of such a question, you need to understand and appreciate the process known as “individuation”. As the name implies, this is the process nearly every human pre-adolescent and adolescent goes through in order to establish their own identity. This process is marked with more need for privacy, and other things that seem to come awfully close to shunning the rest of the family. Parents who don’t understand this end up with their feelings hurt, resentful, and pouty; wondering where their child went. I’ve been a youth pastor for nearly 15 years, and one of the luxuries of such a life is to see this very thing happen hundreds of times before in other people’s kids. But now its our turn.

It’s not easy, even with the experience the ministry affords me. But it is thrilling.

Now, the trick is to not wish away the moments; longing for the days gone by of greater dependence, but to relish each moment over the coming years and watch as this girl slowly and surely becomes a woman of God.

This morning she went to Leadership Camp. On the drive there, I affirmed my belief in her in very clear terms. I told her just how powerful an influence I truly believe this is and can be. I shared with her my conviction that the world has plenty of followers–too many, in fact. What we need is many more leaders. We need more people who will point, compel, and lead others in the direction of right, good, and Godly ways.

And by God, and with God, and for God, I pray that she’ll do it.

I’m gonna go set up her new email.

This might fall under the category of “slightly off”, but here are my thoughts on prayer lately. It started with my kids, actually. When I’d tuck them into bed, I’d ask the question, “Who wants to pray?” Maybe it was my imagination, but I’d routinely get looks back as if I was asking, “Who wants to crawl into the deep, dark hole in the ground–we’re not sure what’s in there, or how deep it is, but we’re fairly sure you can get out the other end.” It just seemed that they were unnaturally intimidated by the prospect of talking with their Creator.

And that’s the very deal. Now, call this symantics, but I am retraining my brain not to use the word “pray” or “prayer” anymore. I’m sure I can hear some who might read this saying, “Jerry has lost it. He’s finally gone into the deep end of the crazy pool.” But here’s what I noticed: when I ask my kids, “Who wants to talk with God?”, there’s a different look in their eyes and there’s been more of a willingness to do that very thing: Talk with God.

Now, it’s not that the words “pray” and “prayer” are outlawed with me; that’d be ridiculous. But I am more conscious of the reality behind those words. What we’re really doing is conversing with our Creator. And I want to live a life and bring my kids up to live a life where that flows naturally.