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On September 11, 2001, I was serving on active duty at Coast Guard Headquarters in Washington, DC. At the time, the Coast Guard was headquartered in the District near Fort McNair, so it was across the Potomac River from the Pentagon. I was working with the group that coordinated Coast Guard missions and activities with the Department of Defense and I was in fairly regular contact with folks in the Pentagon. That morning I was waiting for a call to tell me when to head over to the Pentagon for a meeting.

Our team worked in a secure space with no windows. Someone with the cyber lock combination to our door stuck his head in and told us a plane had just hit the World Trade Center. Like so many folks we first thought something must have happened to the pilot to cause such a horrific accident. We turned on the TV and, like many of you, watched the horror unfold.

If you were keeping up with events that morning, like me you experienced the realization that one plane could have been an accident, but two planes, then three, then four, were part of a coordinated attack on our country. When the Pentagon was hit, we rushed across the hall to an admiral’s office and saw the smoke and flames rising over the Potomac. I will never forget that sight.

My day was spent trying to locate the Coasties who served in liaison roles in the Pentagon. It took some frantic phone calls, but all were located. One man had stayed home that day but had not yet phoned in to let anyone know; we thought we had lost him. Another, a Reservist like me, was an EMT in civilian life. He was a hero that day treating injured survivors. I had the honor and privilege of calling his family to let them know he was okay. I can still hear the relief in his sister’s voice as, through her tears, she relayed to everyone that Mike was okay. I may have teared up a bit myself.

Civilian workers at nearly all government agencies were sent home, which caused a traffic jam that was epic even by Washington standards. Rumors were rampant that another attack was imminent, that a plane was spotted heading for the White House, another for the Capitol. Of course, the planes stopped crashing, but the day remained surreal. I drove home (to a hotel in the District) late that night. The streets were deserted except for a few roving patrols. The nearly constant noise of aircraft approaching or departing Reagan National Airport was missing. It was an eerie feeling. I spent the next few days on a watch rotation serving with the Department of Transportation, the Coast Guard’s boss at the time. Things obviously settled down, but Washington remained a ghost town for several days.

Of course, life went on and returned to a “new normal.” The Coast Guard’s new boss is the Department of Homeland Security, an agency born of 9/11 and one that most Americans would have never envisioned a need for. Planes stopped flying for a while, but eventually took to the air again, albeit under drastically changed security rules. Americans began adjusting to a world we had not previously known where attacks on our homeland were not only possible, but potentially devastating. A “War on Terrorism” was coming, we all knew it, and those battles are still being fought today.

Nearly one quarter of the US population is under the age of 18. That means over 730 million Americans have no memories of that day. Certainly they live with the aftermath, but they do not know a world where terrorist-flown planes have not crashed into buildings killing people. I am sure many people have learned much in response to the events of 9/11/01. From military leaders to corporate security officials to first responders to travelers – we have all adjusted and learned and implemented those lessons. But there is one lesson from 9/11 that was not new, but perhaps was driven again home that day. In all circumstances we should turn to God. The Psalmist says it best: “Whom have I in Heaven but You? And beside You, I desire nothing on earth.” (Psalm 73:25). Where else would you turn?

It should not take a tragedy to cause people call upon the Lord, but it often does. Church attendance spiked in the months after 9/11, but soon fell back to normal levels. Some people cried out to God; others questioned how God could allow such a tragedy. Despite the attacks, despite the confusion, despite the changes, God was always God.

There can be benefits to a tragedy if it brings someone into relationship with God, but we don’t like to think that way. We want to avoid tragedy (naturally) and definitely don’t want God to get our attention through pain and suffering. Unfortunately, too many of us don’t live in strong relationship with God when there is no pain, no suffering, no tragedy. We might even feel like hypocrites turning to Him in our hour of need when we ignore him the rest of the time.

But He wants us to turn to Him, regardless of the motivation. His arms are strong and His love is overwhelming. And there will be pain. It is part of life in a fallen world among sinful creatures. But in the pain is the constancy of God. He does not change with the pain, and He does not change with the circumstances of our lives. He gave His name to Moses … I am. The very words “I am” give comfort because they guarantee the constancy, the permanence, and the everlastingness of God. He is there and He wants to be with us in every moment of our lives.

To me, the ultimate lesson of 9/11 is one I seem to need to be reminded of every day: Turn to God.

Jonathan Smith was 93 years old when this daguerreotype was taken on October 20, 1854. When he was 14 years old, he enlisted to fight in the American Revolution. He eventually joined a church in the free state of Rhode Island, became a lay preacher, and was ordained to the ministry. Jonathan buried two wives, married a third, produced a number of children and grandchildren, and had this photograph taken for one of his granddaughters. Joseph Bauman produced a book entitled Don’t Tread on Me: Photographs and Life Stories of American Revolutionaries where Jonathan’s story, and seven others, may be found along with their photographs. Those photographs may also be found in this Time magazine article from 2013.

It is amazing that we have photographs of men that fought in the Revolution. What is even more wonderful to me is that we do not have photographs of the Declaration signers, members of the Continental Congress, or the leaders of the army; we have pictures of ordinary men who signed up to fight for freedom. Jonathan Smith’s face is truly the face of independence.

The photograph has been colorized, but it still speaks volumes. Those eyes saw harshness and those hands labored long. Jonathan’s hands built fortifications and likely held a musket as he fought in the Battle of Long Island and the Battle of  Rhode Island, but those hands also held the Scripture as he proclaimed the Word of God.

As believers, we have had heroes of the faith for 2,000 years. Baptist preachers who stand out in this pantheon include Charles Spurgeon and Billy Graham. But Jonathan Smith was a  Baptist preacher who labored in obscurity. We would probably never have heard of him except for this photograph, and therein lies the beauty of unsung heroes.

The heroes of the faith are those like 14-year-old Jonathan Smith, the ones who dug the trenches,  who carried the muskets and ammunition, who suffered bitterly cold winters and often wondered where their next meal would come from. Heroes of the faith labor without recognition, know they are serving a higher cause, an eternal cause, and that the momentary afflictions of this world are immaterial.

The American Revolution looms large in our country’s mythos, and rightfully so. But we must never forget that it was fought by the Jonathan Smiths of the world. And while megachurches and mega-preachers capture much of Christendom’s imagination, it is the Jonathan Smiths of the faith that carry the Word forward. It is the Jonathan Smiths, preacher and lay folk alike, who might be  recognized and appreciated by a few, but who will labor mostly in obscurity. And it is the Jonathan Smiths of the faith that will ultimately hear their master say, “Well done, good and faithful servant.”

Thank you for your service, Jonathan Smith, for your country and for your Savior.

Soldiers’ feet, marching smartly in unison on level streets,
faltering into discord as they struggle up the steep incline.

Mobs roaring in waves quickly reduced to murmurs as the street narrows so only two or three may stand in ranks and come face to face with him.

A terrified child crying in heaving gasps as the bruised and battered man stumbles past.

Women wailing in great dirges of mourning:
professionals weaving their chords into an eerie tune;
true grievers spilling out their pain in inarticulate noise.

The rough, barely hewn tree bumping on the cobblestones then dragging through the dust, mixing heavy thumps with muted scraping.

A maul pounding a rusty spike through flesh into wood,
its steady beat torn by anguished screams.

Muffled sobs interspersed with mocking laughter,
an ill-matched duet of sadness and scorn.

Huge claps of thunder coupled with the sharp cracking of stones as graves are broken open.

No one hears the faltering beat of a burdened heart,
no one except his father.

A final cry – the coda … yet also the overture.

Yesterday, I had the privilege of officiating the chapel and graveside services for a burial at Arlington National Cemetery. Our family laid to rest the remains of my mother-in-law, Frances Dodd, nearly two years to the day after she died. Covid and some missteps on the part of the Arlington staff led to the long delay but, finally, twenty-three family members gathered on a cold, cloudy, windy morning to inter her ashes at her husband’s grave.

Her husband, John Dodd, died in 2004. When we  buried him it was in a relatively newer part of the cemetery and we were struck by how barren it appeared. In the intervening years, trees have grown and, of course, more veterans and their spouses were buried. In the understatement of the new year, time moves on.

When we arrived at the Old Post Chapel on Fort Myer, I met with the chaplain assistants and the cemetery representative to review the logistics for the services, particularly the ceremonial parts of each. As we discussed these solemn matters in the foyer and then in a private gathering room, I was struck by the sounds of laughter and the squeals of the children coming from the sanctuary. We had nine kids under the age of fourteen with five under the age of four. There was definitely squealing and chasing going on. But what beautiful sounds in such a setting! Fran would have loved seeing the kids run around, would have joined in the laughter, and would have found joy at her funeral.

Two years may dull the edge of grief, but the service brought fresh grief. We have become accustomed to the world without Fran, but that does not mean her loss was felt any less keenly yesterday. We finished the chapel service and proceeded  to the graveside. There the family gathered under and around a tent while I led a short committal service. “Short” is the order of the day at our national cemeteries as they conduct so many funerals each day they run on a tight schedule. After I shared a few thoughts we sang the four verses of Amazing Grace. As I mentioned, it was a cloudy day. As we sang the words, “When we’ve been there ten thousand years bright shining as the sun,” the sun broke through the clouds behind me and bathed everyone in its light.

Due to heavy rain the night before and very wet ground, the service was held curbside, however, we all wanted to walk up to the grave site. My daughter, Callie, captured this photo as we proceeded up the hill. It’s a beautiful picture and to me it symbolizes what I was trying to express in some of my remarks: those who believe in Christ, like Fran, who have claimed His mercy and grace, are journeying to a brighter, better place. And the platitude, “she’s in a better place now” does not begin to capture the life she is leading and the absolute joy she is experiencing. I am grateful for the moment the sun broke through and I am grateful for this photograph. It reminded me that my words really did not matter, God is in control and God provides the peace and comfort we need.

We reconvened at a DC restaurant and spent a couple of hours catching up, reminiscing, laughing, and, of course, eating. It was the perfect way to end a morning that celebrated our mother, mother-in-law, granny, and Gigi (great-granny). We are slowly going our separate ways with some having left yesterday and others today. We will return to Florida, Louisiana, South Carolina, and central Virginia and carry with us the finality of these moments but also the joy of family and memories of a life well-lived. And we will carry with us the knowledge that one day we will live out the final words of that beautiful hymn, “… we’ve no less days to sing God’s praise than when we first begun.”

I am please to announce the publication of “Psalms and Songs for the Season,” a book of Advent devotions. It is available in print and Kindle editions on Amazon. Merry Christmas!

The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald was one of Gordon Lightfoot’s biggest hits. It is a ballad about the sinking of a Great Lakes freighter sung in his engaging baritone. I heard it recently and was struck by this line: “’Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?’ I was reminded of this line last week when Hurricane Ian brought devastation to Southwest Florida.

A talking head on the Weather Channel said that the island of Sanibel essentially experienced a strong tornado for several hours. The stories and images coming out of Sanibel are heart-breaking. While I was not a frequent visitor to the island, I did spend some time there as a child and Michele and I celebrated an anniversary there several years ago. It is a wonderful place.

Having lived through a direct hit from Hurricane Andrew and having experienced other storms to varying degrees, as well as having served onboard ships during heavy weather, the line from the song resonates with me.  I can only imagine those who stayed on Sanibel during the storm felt that the minutes became hours as they were relentlessly pounded by wind, surging water, and rain. I am certain the men on the Edmund Fitzgerald and many other doomed ships felt the same agony. Events like fatal hurricanes and shipwrecks raise the age-old question, where was God? If He is a God of love, where is His love during the storm?

Many books have been written on this subject, many sermons preached, many discussions and even arguments held which likely left people unsatisfied and perhaps ended friendships. It would be foolish to think that a blog post could provide the answers and comfort that people seek yet the question remains: “’Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours?’ I do, in fact, know the answer to this question.

God’s love does not go anywhere. It is not a commodity to be given or withheld. It is not a feeling of His that is dependent upon whether we are behaving at a particular time or not.  His love is not capricious, shallow, or fleeting.  God’s very essence is love meaning His love is constant and unending. His love was there for the men on the Edmund Fitzgerald; His love was there for the people in the eye-wall of Hurricane Ian; His love is there for each of us going the storms of life. The problem is that we do not recognize it and trust Him in the storms.

This begs the question of why God allows the storms to begin with, perhaps even sends the storms. It is asked throughout Scripture; it is the question everyone has when hardships come.  It is perhaps a` greater question than the one asked by Gordon Lightfoot – If God is a God of love, why did He allow this to happen?

Again, a blog post will not answer this question to anyone’s satisfaction. I know that most bad things happen because we live in a broken world. I know that some bad things happen because there are bad people who cause them to happen. I know that some things happen as a direct result of our actions for which there are consequences. I know hurricanes are formed in the eastern Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Africa and some become massive storms that make landfall in the Western Hemisphere. I know that storms occur at sea, including the Great Lakes, that produce huge waves and sometimes overwhelm the strongest vessels. I know that some children become sick and die, that our beloved pets don’t live very long, that people drive drunk, that downsizings occur, that false accusations happen, and on and on. Bad things happen – why?

Nicholas Wolterstorff is a Christian philosopher who lost his son to a climbing accident.  He wrote, “I cannot fit it all together by saying, ‘He [God] did it,’ but neither can I do so by saying, ‘There was nothing he could do about it.’ I cannot fit it together at all.  I can only, with Job, endure.  I do not know why God did not prevent Eric’s death.  To live without the answer is precarious.  It’s hard to keep one’s footing. I believe in God the Father Almighty, maker of heaven and earth and resurrector of Jesus Christ.  I also believe that my son’s life was cut off in its prime.  I cannot fit these pieces together.  I am at a loss … To the most agonized question I have ever asked I do not know the answer.  I do not know why God would watch him fall.  I do not know why God would watch me wounded.  I cannot even guess … My wound is an unanswered question.”

Throughout the Psalms the writers question God, yet they trust Him. In fact, in Psalm 46:1-3 we find these words:

God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble, therefore we will not fear, though the earth should change and though the mountains slip into the heart of the sea; though its waters roar and foam, though the mountains quake at its swelling pride.

God, who is the author of the changes in the earth, the mountains slipping into the sea, the roaring and foaming waters, and the quaking mountains, is actually a refuge and strength in these troubles. That seems counter-intuitive. How can the author of the trouble be the refuge for the trouble?

I believe God is good. In Exodus 34:6 we read, “The Lord passed before him and proclaimed, ‘The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness.’”

James 1:17 tells us, ‘Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.” Psalm 25:8 notes, “Good and upright is the Lord, therefore he instructs sinners in the way.”

Here we have an inkling of how the goodness of God allows badness in this world – He instructs sinners in the way.  This means: 1) we are sinners; and 2) we have things to learn. He can teach us because of His goodness, but that likely involves suffering.

God does not derive pleasure from pain and injustice.  He defends those who are oppressed.  However, part of God’s judgment against sin involves allowing it to play out to its logical conclusion.  God gives the human race over to the choices we make. Read Romans 1:18-32. It is an damning indictment of mankind and after reading it no one should be surprised that bad things happen in our world.

We want God to be our protector, our nanny, and make all the bad things go away. We don’t have that option in this broken world. The option we do have is to find refuge in God and to trust Him at all times, good and bad.  We often wish that God would remove all the tragedy and suffering from our lives, all the risk and the heartache. He is going to do that for those that trust Him.  The beautiful hymn proclaims, This World is not my Home. We will be restored to complete and perfect fellowship with God, IF we claim the grace He offers. 

Despite this hope of a better world our hearts still cry out with hurt. Job, the epitome of a sufferer, was able to say in Job 1:21, “The Lord gives and the Lord takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.” When confronted by his wife after losing nearly everything he loved and everything he owned, then becoming ill, he said, “Shall we indeed accept good from God and not accept adversity?” (Job 2:10). Job recognized the reality of the world but he also recognized the character of God.

God owes us nothing yet He is willing to give us everything. We deserve judgement yet He offers grace. He became one of us and died to pay a price we could not pay.

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. 2 Corinthians 12:9

Yet what we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory he will give us later. Romans 8:18

Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of mercies and God of all comfort, who comforts us in any affliction, with the comfort with which we ourselves are comforted by God. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

We must remember in the midst of the pain from our suffering and wounding that the One who still bears wounds bears them for us.  He was wounded for our transgressions and by His stripes we are healed. (Isaiah 53:5) In spite of your wounds and any anger and resentment you may feel, Christ died for you and that trumps your pain. That may sound harsh, but it is true.

Does anyone know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours? Yes, Jesus said to those who believe, “I will be with you always.” (Matthew 28:20) Through the presence of the Holy Spirit in the life of every believer, we never go through one moment separated from the One who loves us. The love of God was present in creation, the love of God was present on the cross and in the empty tomb, the love of God was present at your birth, is present at your sufferings and your rejoicings, and will be present at your death. And if you claim that love and grace and believe that Jesus gave His life for yours, you will fully experience the overwhelming love of God in eternity. God is love in both the mighty waves and the sunlit seas.

During my recent second go-round with Covid, I caught up on some reading and television-watching.  I watched a movie I hadn’t seen before and the last thirty minutes or so of one of my all-time favorites.  The new-to-me movie was Guardians of the Galaxy 2; eventually,  I’ll catch up on all the Marvel movies.  One scene got me thinking and it was reinforced by watching the end of Field of Dreams a couple of days later. In each movie, a grown son plays catch with the father he either never knew or had been estranged from.  I played catch with my dad a lot, sometimes with a baseball and more often tossing a football.  We always had a basketball goal so we shot a lot of hoops together, too, and, of course, spent a few hours tossing Frisbees back and forth.  Seeing those movies and the impact the game of catch had on the sons reminded me how special it was to have those times with my dad.

I am the father of three girls so one might think I didn’t have a chance to play catch with my children.  Not true, although our games of “catch” often involved kicking a soccer ball.  But we did sometimes toss around a baseball or football. Once, four of us were heading to the North Carolina mountains to visit family and pick up our oldest daughter from camp. Our car broke down about an hour away from their house (hello new transmission) and we called my brother-in-law who came and picked up my wife and youngest daughter.  My daughter Megan and I rode in the tow truck to the dealership where we waited for my brother-in-law to pick us up after dropping off the other two and our luggage.  For such a time as this I kept a Nerf football in the car.  I pulled it out and Megan and I played catch in that dealership parking lot for an hour or so.  I don’t remember much else about that trip, but I can still picture that beautiful Saturday summer evening in a closed dealership parking lot tossing a Nerf ball with my daughter chatting about nothing and everything.  Such is the power of a game of catch.  We know it’s not the game that’s important, but the time spent together. 

Father’s Day is coming and children of all ages will be giving goofy gifts, funny greeting cards, grilling tools, golf shirts (does anyone give ties anymore?), among other things.  Some dads will take naps, some will grill, some will play golf, some (hopefully many) will be in church with their families.  I believe the best and truest gift of Father’s Day is simply the opportunity to be a father.  The responsibility is daunting because a father should be striving to model the love of the Father, a standard none of us can hope to achieve.  But what a joy to love and be loved by your kids! To see them grow and learn and thrive despite the mistakes you make as a parent. It is an awesome, rewarding, taxing, fun, crazy responsibility and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  Plus, if God smiles on you, someday you’ll reap the rewards of being a grandad!

I’m old now which qualifies me to give unsolicited advice. And the advice I’m giving should not be new to anyone. Dads, play catch with your kids. Catch may be tossing a ball, or it may be fishing, or it may be shopping, or it may be reading a book together, or it may be hiking, or it maybe playing in the pool, or any number of things. “Catch” means spending one-on-one time with your child.  I treasure the times I had with each and all of my girls, but I know I could have done better, could have taken more time to invest in them.  Time is precious and it is the biggest resource we waste. Use it on relationships, especially with your kids. The time you invest in them now will shape them into the adults you want them to be who will, in turn, invest in their kids.

My dad has been gone nearly ten years now.  I’d love the opportunity to play catch with him again, but that won’t happen this side of eternity.  I’m hoping that in that “big, big yard where we can play football” I’ll have the chance to pick up a glove or a football, look across a span of rich green grass, and send a ball toward my dad.  And then I’ll turn and catch a ball from one of my daughters who will have caught it from one of her children. And won’t that be grand?

Happy Father’s Day!

My flesh was not torn by the lash.
Nails did not pierce my hands and feet.
My lungs did not gasp for air.
The pain was not mine.

My body did not hang on a tree.
I was not mocked with hateful scorn.
Friends did not leave me to die.
The shame was not mine.

My father did not forsake me.
The burden of sin was not placed on me.
Justified wrath was not directed at me.
The punishment was not mine.

I cannot stand in the presence of the holy God.
He can.
I cannot pay the price demanded by my unrighteousness.
He can.
I cannot save myself.
He can.

The pain, the shame, and the punishment were mine,
but He chose to bear them because He loves me.

I deserve the cross.
I deserve the tomb.
I deserve the wrath.

Rather than pain I have hope.
Rather than shame I have joy.
Rather than punishment I have pardon.

I was given grace.
I was given mercy.
I was given life.

Center section.  Six rows back.  Left end with an ink spot on the gold pew fabric shaped like Utah or one of the other of those squarish states out west.  That’s where we sat every Sunday when I was a kid; where we sat in the “new” sanctuary, that is.  Of course, that sanctuary is now fifty years old, and that pew is long gone.

Sundays were always the same – first Sunday School, then the service where I sat on the end of the pew next to my mother, with my brother on her other side.  My father, the pastor, was on the platform.  I treasured the rare occasions when he was able to sit with us, his arm around me, listening to him breathe.  But it was usually my mother, brother and me on Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings and Wednesday evenings. 

She sang a beautiful alto, but she once told me she usually sang melody when I was sitting with her in church because she was afraid her alto would confuse me … she obviously identified my ear for music early on.  Year after year I sat with her and my brother.  My dad was called to pastor another church when I was a teenager, so we identified a new place to sit as a family in the new sanctuary.  As I grew older, I sat with other kids on Sunday and Wednesday evenings, but I always sat with Mom on Sunday mornings.  My girlfriend, who became my wife, joined us.

Mom died over fourteen years ago, but she was gone long before that Alzheimer’s having taken her away from us many years before.  She continued to attend church for a while but could not sing her beautiful alto, did not know her friends, and lost her ability to communicate.  It was painful to observe her descent into disorder and confusion, and, ultimately, to a place of emptiness where any form of personal engagement ceased, but I was grateful she remained with us physically for as long as she did.

Today is her birthday – she would have been 96. I miss her but I would not have her come back to this broken world in her broken body.   She is experiencing life to its absolute fullest, the way it was always intended to be lived, in the presence of her Savior. But I would love to have one more Sunday sitting beside her in church, listening to her sing, doodling on a bulletin, kinda/sorta paying attention to my dad, and feeling like all was right with the world.  Happy Birthday, Mom.