Manual Transmission

One of my high school friends -- really, only one, as far as I can recall -- drove a manual transmission car.  It was a green Kia Rio. Kat loved that car. She love tapped my also green Jeep Cherokee once, and I was pissed about it.  She’d probably have to be going 25 miles an hour to do any real damage to mine, but I loved my car, too. I made a trade with her that I would give her a copy of my Led Zeppelin cd collection if she’d teach me to drive it.  It was the first and only time I have driven a standard, and I remember thinking that it was pretty easy, except for first gear. I really want to get a standard transmission in my next car, but I cannot say how much faith I have in my memory from 20 years ago in her Kia Rio, especially since first gear comes up a lot.

She was a great sport about it.  We were, among other things, music friends, as my offering suggests.  I remember watching my Who concert dvd that day with her. We shared the bass solo in 5:15 melting our faces off.  It gets me everytime; I am not sure how many times I watched it.

She was coming off her first real breakup around that time.  We talked about that, how much she felt like it would be with her forever -- which is basically true of everyone’s first love.  I had gotten George Harrison’s Brainwashed for Christmas that year, and we listened to that, too.  There’s a song on it called Never Get Over You.  I remember her saying, “That’s how I feel about Ryan.”  She did, in fact, get over him.

I also remember her saying that she felt like would have a handful of very intense relationships like the one she had with him, but I would basically only have one, and that would be it.  I would find Her -- and I would just know.

Kat was one of my best friends, almost like extended family, but looking back, it is one of those things that still weirds me out to think that I project enough of whatever it is that I am for her to absorb it, synthesize it, analyze it, and return it to me in a way that I would not have sorted out on my own.  I still cannot say how she did it.

I had encounters with other girls before I met Her, of course, and sometimes I thought one of them might be Her.  But once I actually met Her, I knew Kat was right. When we first met, it took some effort for me to get her to realize what I had already realized, but honestly, in the scheme of things, it was nothing.  Not compared to what I got in return.

Our first date I asked Her out for coffee, and She said, “How about ice cream instead?”  Ice cream is way better than coffee!  That is how my life has been since.  We went to Dairy Queen and we sat outside.  We talked about ourselves and football. We are fans of semi-rival teams, so there is a natural conflict all the time on the subject.  We have been married for seven and a half years now and still talk about football and eat ice cream. The last time our teams met, they split the series.  It was not fun for either of us.

It became clear that both of us were thinking the same thing around Christmas time when we watched Step Up 2: The Streets at my place.  The thing is, it would not have mattered what it was that we watched.  You see, the gears just shifted right into place, like that is how they are supposed to fit.  Even the first one.

Happy Fourth of July

I made it to the White House and the United States Capitol for the first time earlier this year.  I was traveling with my family for a long weekend to Washington, D.C.  I must admit that I was pretty taken with the imagery and architecture of the seat of our republic.

I had been to the city once before, but not to those two buildings.  I had seen and entered all of the memorials on the National Mall and stood in awe of the American Ebenezers to Thomas Jefferson and Martin Luther King, all under the watch of the Washington Monument, of course, and the reminder of what kind of men built this country -- and the missteps along the way to get here. 

It was the right time for me, though, because I was consuming a lot of media about history, in particular the American and French Revolutions.  When considering the historical context of what political theory was like in Europe in the 18th Century, the United States of America is a gigantic human leap forward.  The mission statement captured in the Declaration of Independence set a goal for us all to strive for -- that all of us are equal and made that way by powers greater than any earthly institutions and any governments that interfere with those rights are illegitimate.  It was, of course, also fraught with internal contradictions.  Just like all of us still are.

Without that historical context, it is easy to overlook how significant the articulation of these ideas were.  The American Revolution was revolutionary in many senses of the word, since the major powers on the European Continent were still ruled by monarchs invested by divine right (and so were those across the world in Asia, for that matter).  The failures of the French Revolution that looked to ours and reached out for the same liberty we now enjoyed showed how fragile those ideas are and how lucky we were to have the men named on the Mall.  The expression "the Revolution eats its children" comes from this period in France.  The sins of America were different ones than the French, but our guiding principles at least identified a North Star for us (and those for whom the promise of the Declaration was cruelly and immorally excluded) to sail towards.  There was no Reign of Terror to devour our own.  At least, not in the same way.  Our Reign of Terror was an issue of our ideals not being shared with all of our sons and daughters; France's was about which ideals should actually count.

There are two places on the National Mall that made me cry both times: the Lincoln Memorial and the Vietnam War Memorial.  The Lincoln Memorial stands as a testament that this project, imperfect in execution as it was, is worth preserving, at the expense of blood.  Engraved inside the classical temple are Lincoln's two greatest speeches -- among anyone's greatest speeches -- defending the virtue of republican self-government and advocating magnanimity to the enemy, our own countrymen, at the conclusion of the bloody surgery of exorcising part of America's fallen nature.  The moral stain of slavery was not completely cleansed after the conclusion of the Civil War, but the sails of the ship of state tacked closer to Jefferson's North Star.

The Vietnam Memorial is different.  While the Lincoln Memorial is theoretical and high minded, the Vietnam War Memorial is clinical in its groundedness. It is a relentless reminder of just what war costs as after each step the names just keep coming, the wall getting taller, and deeper.  It is taller than you are before you reach the halfway point.  It also serves the aching realization that there is no Second Inaugural Address, no end of slavery, no clear hard won prize purchased with the dearly spent lives.  It is a reminder that "progress" does not necessarily trend in a one to one ratio with the axis of time, as much as our optimism (and etchings on our hero's monuments) wants it to, without effort.  The arc of the moral universe is long, but there is no gravitational center without principled people bending it.

At the same time our states were warring against themselves, France had slipped into a Second -- Second -- Empire; their republican ideals did not stick.  Let us not forget this Fourth of July what we have been bequeathed by our forefathers.  It includes all of us, of every ethnicity, creed, and sex.  All men, endowed by our Creator.  It is our birthright.  Those values are worth preserving.  They are worth advancing.  They are rare.  And they are easy to lose.

Sins are bad, mmkay

One of the prongs of a recent political discussion has been clanging around in my head, and I have not been able to quite put it to rest.  It comes from the role of faith in politics and the perception that its presence leads to  oppression, if not specifically targeted at disadvantaged groups, then effectively so -- primarily women and homosexuals.  Since this discussion was concerning American politics, it was really in regards to Christianity.


It bugged me, because Christianity, if properly understood, has no room for that.  When it enters politics, though, that's a different story -- Theodosius's decision to establish Christianity in the 4th Century created a new privileged class within the Roman Empire and Europe hasn't been the same since and, unfortunately, frequently not for the better.  This gets to the issue of "religion" vs. "faith" and, while seemingly nuanced, is significant.


This is important to me because this image that became presented, one of an oppressive and restricting Christianity is not the same image that I have of it in my experience.  Christianity is primarily about love and forgiveness, because each of us has found love and forgiveness through Christ based on His mercy and nothing to do with our actions.  That mercy extends to anyone who seeks it -- regardless of color, gender, sexual preference, or behavioral history.  That is, it is entirely inclusive to anyone, so long as a relationship with Christ is pursued.  That's at the heart of John 3:16, the verse that nearly everyone has heard at least once. Additionally, when asked what the most important commandment is, Jesus answers with love God -- and the second, love your neighbors (Matthew 22:35-40).  


Christianity has no inherent political aims within its scripture, really highlighted by Matthew 22:21, "Render therefore unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's; and unto God the things that are God's."  We have applied a rather crude litmus test to our politics to require the appearance of Christian faith from our leaders whether they really believe it or not.  It is very important to note that there are a number of ways that belief manifests itself, we are all sinners and no one really knows another's heart, so it is difficult to say who falls in which category, but the more vocal certainly get tougher scrutiny.


Rick Perry is an example of such a candidate.  One of the issues that he put front and center in his ad entitled, "Strong" is one that really gives credence, unfortunately, to the position I am trying to argue against.  He opens with a volley against homosexuals, which is a controversial subject.  I think that Christians and homosexuals frequently get hung up on another way out of proportion to the need.  While there is ample scriptural evidence that points to homosexual behavior as being sinful, it's also important to note other common things that are sinful: divorce, gossip, not giving freely, greed, and putting God to the test.  There aren't really protests of objection against divorce courts, celebrity tabloids, politicians who claim to be faithful but are not with their money when their tax returns are released, television shows that have a character make a deal with God or threaten Him with unbelief unless some desired outcome is reached with nearly the enthusiasm that religious people go after homosexuals.


This sort of public reaction that we do see begs the question that some sins are worse than others.  That is a rather nuanced theological question, but ultimately, sin is failing to meet God's expectations, and failure is failure.  In order to reach fellowship with God, we need forgiveness from that failure, and Christ is the vehicle God provided to achieve that, out of God the Father's love for humanity.  (See Romans 6:23.)  Every sin is a source of separation from God -- a lack of Christlike perfection -- so we are all in this boat together.  The very powerful story of Jesus and the sinful woman in John 8:2-11 shows us that we are not able to judge and should not.  By judging, we are assuming for ourselves the role of God the Son, which is also sinful.

Now, this isn't to say that we shouldn't object to sinful behavior.  The charge for Christians to share our story (Matthew 28:16-20) is based on a sense that we have something valuable -- a relationship with Christ, a loving God -- that others might want.  It is a path to redemption, truth, and freedom.  Sinful behavior is an obstacle to achieving that relationship, and not loving people is unmistakably contrary to God's will.

Veteran's Day

Veteran’s Day is for us all, whether we actually put on the uniform and saw combat or not. We turn ourselves upon those who did, awestruck, and try in any demonstrable effort to point our collective American focus on those who traded some measure of their freedom in exchange that we might not have to bargain with ours. We can’t know what it’s like to be 7000 miles away from everything we’ve ever known because our country, our people, asked us to go there. We can’t know how changed, transfigured, one might be afterwards.

There is a photograph of my grandfather in his living room standing in uniform arm in arm, smiling, with his wife who sits in that same room with him every day. They are who they are because he wore that. I am who I am because he wore that. We are all who we are because they wore that.

Sadly, last week reminded us that these stories do not always end in picturesque black and white photographs and the romance of how the Greatest Generation allowed us to say the Pledge of Allegiance in school in English. Sometimes the transfiguration, whatever its source, is not into something noble, beautiful, and romantic; sometimes there is a horrible metamorphosis, twisting at the soul of those caught between commitments and tragically unmoored from the mission they are commissioned to execute – our country, our people, who count on every man and woman in service, who need every man or woman in service – our safety, our freedom and our identity is their mission. Sometimes the tragedies are not quite so grotesque as unfolded last week in Texas. Sometimes it’s small, and simple, like the nameless stories that newspapers never cover like newly married couples who make their lifelong commitments just months before being flung across continents to carry out the yearlong ones. But I guess it’s only small and simple from the outside.

I have faith that that photograph and that couple and every wonderful and morose moment in between occurs under the watchful eye of a loving God, even, paradoxically, the murders at Ft. Hood. I certainly don’t understand how, and I am returned to the often unsatisfying “My ways are not your ways” from Isaiah 55:8, but to be fair, I don’t understand how the two people found their way from the photograph to their living room half a century later, either.

Let it at least serve as a terrible reminder for us, all of us, that we need them. And that we need Him. We need the servicemen and women, because without them, we are not “we.” Our country, our people are defined by the dividends of freedom they have voluntarily surrendered so that ours may collect interest. As we realize this, though, it may be easy to overlook the fact that as much as we need them, they need us, too. They keep going because of us. A care package, a letter, a meal, a handshake, a thank you serves to remind them that we have not forgotten that they have done something incomparably gracious just by doing their job, by being who they are. So I take this opportunity to say thank you to them for in their sacrifices, I see lives lived in the example of that loving God, whether they realize it or not, and a simple reminder to put our focus on them, and Him, today, on Veteran’s Day. But I guess it’s only simple from the outside.

I don't want to ruin the friendship

I was thinking about something that came up in the life of one of my girlfriend’s friend. One of the age old clichés that girls give guys, “I wouldn’t want to ruin a good friendship” is complete poppycock. Poppycock, I say! There is no circumstance that this statement would be true. The girl is either lying to him, and that she is really, quite simply, not attracted to him, or lying to herself, and is afraid of what would happen if she said yes. If she really valued the friendship, she would tell him the truth and actively ensure the friendship would not be ruined afterwards. If he cannot accept that, then he was lying to himself and was not really invested in the friendship, but rather a convoluted courtship and reached an unfortunate failure.

I have been lucky enough to experience one go the good way and one go the bad way. The difference is how we reacted to the admission. In both cases, it was I who wanted more. The good one happened earlier in my life, and fortunately for me, the friendship was important enough to her not to allow something like my romantic interest keep us from being friends; today, she is one of my closest. I don’t really understand what happened with the other. All I can figure is that I was not important enough for her to put in similar effort, and we are not part of each other’s lives, and it still bothers me, even though this happened some time ago. The fact that I have endured the first of these, though, proves that expression of romantic interest need not doom an actual platonic relationship.

The honest expression of emotion, however easy for me to write here, is not easy to actually commit to in practice. There is an established fear of rejection in all of us, and this is clearly a manifestation of that, which is counterintuitive, because the person doing the rejecting in this case is being pursued. But the real reason for hesitation is obscured, and when that happens, the friendship is being held back anyway. Like every healthy relationship, platonic, romantic or otherwise, honest communication is critical.

That idea is antithetical to the desired outcome of relationships, anyway; if someone is worth your friendship, they ought to be worth your better friendship, right? If they are worth a romantic relationship, they ought to be your friend, too. That is a definite success that my girlfriend and I have experienced, even if the achievement of that was realized in a roundabout way. To a degree, she could be a character in this story, with a very positive outcome.

The point is, though, that a friendship is not ruined by the expression of one party wanting more. It is ruined by the negative reactions of the parties involved. The object of desire can handle it perfectly and the desirer can e a crackpot and result in tragedy just as easily as the desired can turn awkward. Or there can be a combination of both. Or neither, and growth can occur. It’s all choice, and I hope my girlfriend’s friend makes a better one than the second girl in my story and I did.

I'll say "Go Tigers" instead of "Go Eagles," but I think he'd understand

One of my very good friends plays the saxophone. He was a pretty big deal in high school with it, and because of it, he influenced me a little to try to get into jazz. It worked a little; I saw Wynton Marsalis once, and he was good, but the "date" was less than ideal. But he loves Michael Brecker. Apparently, Brecker is one of the best saxophonists ever. I don't really know a lot about jazz, so I have to take his word for it. When you really get into a hobby like that, you really kind of get to know who the people worthy of admiration of in the field.

My hobby is writing and politics and journalism. Even though it isn't really as exciting or sexy as jazz music, there are still those people, those giants in my field, too, and you might look at those giants the way I look at those in the jazz pantheon: you can recognize that they are good, but really, the distinctions of their styles might be lost if you have never written a political commentary or tried to get information out of a person in a way that other people would want to read it.

Tim Russert died today. He was the biggest of the giants. He was Michael Jordan. He was Wayne Gretzky. He was Michael Brecker. I didn't decide to write because of him or start to like politics because of him. But I liked politics better because of him. I liked journalism better because of him. Not only that, but he made those things better, too. He made America better. Remember that time when John Stewart appeared on Crossfire to criticize the show about their failing the media and the country? Tim Russert was doing it right.

He had one of the five best jobs in the world, and he loved it. He loved holding powerful men and women accountable, and we got to see it at least once a week. When you see an actor, or an athlete, or a musician, having fun with their role, we can tell. Tim Russert was doing that. He was having fun, he was excited to be in the media, and whatever you feel about politics, you can't sit through an episode of Meet The Press and not see that. You just can't.

Interestingly, too, during Meet the Press, we did actually get to meet him. We saw how important his family, his faith, his hometown and his country were to him. He wrote a book about his dad, rather than one about his career, as impressive as it was. There was no doubt about his Catholicism, his loyalty to Buffalo, and his love of the American process. We got to see all that, we got to hear about Big Russ, his son Luke, his love of sports, and it was never imposing. He was the kind of guy who would be just as happy to talk about the NFL or baseball as he was the upcoming election (well, maybe not just as happy), and would probably know more about both than you. But you'd still leave the conversation smiling.

I TiVo Meet The Press. I get excited about watching his show on Saturdays (I know, I'm a nerd). There is a gaping wound in American journalism today. Even though I am only an amateur in this field, he was the best we had. He was 58, died at work of a heart attack. He was just one of those people who seemed to understand life so well, had his priorities in order, and had managed to keep all that in tact after achieving the summit of his profession. This is one of those times that the country has lost as much as his family has. While I won't forget them in my prayers tonight, the rest of us need it too. While I can't bring myself to say "Go Eagles," I can say "Go Sabres!" I think he'd get it, though.

Another one that's not supposed to be funny

I was offered space for a final column a few days ago, as a generous offer from my editor to say goodbye to the paper and the campus that has been my home for the past two years or so. I said ok before a college student decided to make diabolical history on the campus of Virginia Tech, before the Hokies went from a hated sports rival to people whom when they arrive in Death Valley next year, will be shown a little extra helping of Clemson hospitality.

I have only been to Blacksburg once. It was on the tour of visiting possible places for grad school that eventually led me here. The entire city, much like Clemson, is almost completely wrapped up in the school. It’s a pretty little town, where the gray uniformity of the Hokie stone buildings gives the unmistakably erudite feel of a university, while the consistent effort of drivers on campus to stop for pedestrians, even when they were not at a crosswalk, made me feel welcome in a place I had never before been and be waved across the street by a student with a smile.

Universities are interesting like that. There is an unusual combination of family and anonymity that binds every student who attends. There are people who work in the same building I do that I’ve never met, but when I go home and wear my orange, I’m not surprised anymore to hear a “Go Tigers!” from a stranger in Florida. While universities try and usually do a pretty good job of trying to foster and grow that sense of family, it is still easy to get lost in the anonymity, and to lose people in it.

This one college student, who got so far lost in that anonymity, finally did find a way to escape it forever. 4/16 will be one of those horrible dates that people in Virginia remember for the rest of their lives, stained forever with the corrupted memory of this student who would have otherwise been forgotten. Hopefully, the memory will not be restricted to just Virginia, because this is one of those horrible days where the evil ought not be forgotten. We owe it to the victims, people like Jarrett Lane and Juan Ortiz, who, if given then the chance, may have gone on to be remembered for something less tragic. Or Professor Liviu Librescu, whose last actions were block the door of his classroom with his body in an effort to allow his students a better chance to escape danger. It is moving to read about heroism like that, but awful that it must be revealed in such a tragic circumstance.

It is awful that this will inevitably be co-opted by political activists trying to take advantage of the death of thirty-three members of the Virginia Tech family to push some sort of agenda. It has started already; go read the letters to the editor in the New York Times or Washington Post on this event, and there are volleys being fired about how we need more gun control or more guns, depending on the writer’s point of view. There are questions that will need to be raised, of course, but not yet. It is not fair for parents and wives and husbands to hear things like claims that the administration should’ve been able to stop this madman, especially with as much information that has come out so far. It is still time for grieving, and there is likely nothing that would have been able to prevent this. It was, unfortunately, one of those heartbreaking days where nothing makes sense.

So, what we can do is work in good faith to try to enhance the sense of family while minimizing that anonymity. We can pray for those in Virginia whom this has directly affected, the parents throughout the world who have lost children on 4/16, Virginia Tech as a school and colleges in general. We can offer our condolences to a friend in need. We can continue to smile at strangers and say hi. Those are the things that we can take away from this. We should be vigilant, but not at the expense of the sense of community that makes places like Clemson, South Carolina and Blacksburg, Virginia the places that they are. Places to which it is hard to say goodbye.

Originally published in The Tiger.

¡Feliz Navidad! Nollaig Shona! Felix Dies Navitates!

I'm going to throw this up here now since I probably won't be writing tomorrow. So everyone out there in internetland, Merry Christmas. The title tells you how to offer that holiday greeting in Spanish, Irish and Latin, in that order. The Spanish and Latin are both phonetic, but the Irish is pronounced No-lahk Ho-na, in case any leprechauns come across your path tomorrow.

People made a big deal this year about how stores are saying "Merry Christmas" again instead of "Happy Holidays." I have to wonder who exactly gets offended by being wished a Merry Christmas. As a Christian, I can't say I would be offended if a member of any other faith wished me a Happy Hanukkah, Happy Ramadan or whatever. In fact, I think I'd think it was kind of nice that they thought enough to offer such a salutation to me. Just because I don't celebrate one of these holidays, they still happen. I've been wished Happy Diwali before, and I didn't answer with "I'm not Indian, jackass." I answered with, "Thank you." What is wrong with people? I think that "Happy Holidays" is a little obnoxious because it's so non-committal. If you go into Wal-Mart and the greeter says "Happy Hanukkah" am I really going to stop shopping there? This really seems like kind of a petty thing to worry about, doesn't it?

One of the things that helps make my Christmas merry is that when I go back to my church down here and they have an insert in the program (which, inexplicably, didn't have a schedule in it; making me think that the purpose of the program is to serve as a coat for this insert) that includes a shortened version of a Longfellow poem called Christmas Bells. I am going to include it here, but it's important to note that this was written in 1861, as the Civil War was beginning.

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old familiar carols play.
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head
"There is no peace on earth," I said.
For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep
God is not dead, nor doth he sleep.
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men!
-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The rest of the poem is just as good, and you should look it up and read it. Nollaig Shona!

This one's not supposed to be funny

One of the things I remember about my freshman year of college was that when something really big was on tv you could walk down the hallway and hear it in stereo. One week there was a Star Trek marathon, and that sticks out to me as one of those times -– it was Rose-Hulman, after all -- on my way to my room, out of every doorway I could hear the unmistakable sound of the doors opening on the deck of the starship Enterprise. Every once in a while you could hear the voice of Apu from the Simpsons (it was popular enough that if you had the misfortune to head to the dining hall at 6:30 you would get caught in the Simpsons rush). Two other times like this are rather memorable: the NCAA tournament, when everyone could keep track of their inevitably busted brackets simply by walking down Speed Hall and the events that transpired five years ago today.

I remember it was a Tuesday, my longest day. I’ll never forget that it was a Tuesday because it was the first day I was to put on the uniform of an Air Force ROTC cadet. That day it was only a t-shirt that read Air Force and khaki pants, because I hadn’t had my trousers altered to my size just yet; but nonetheless, I was wearing the uniform of my country on that day. I didn’t know there would be anything else remarkable about that day when I got up that morning and went to breakfast and physics. It started out like every other day did; a bowl of cereal and a battle to stay awake in the most impersonal 24 person 8 am class I’ve ever had. Most folks then, as they do now, try to avoid 8 am classes, but that first semester I was not one of the lucky ones. Afterwards, though, it became clear that my wearing a gym shirt proclaiming my membership in the Air Force ROTC was the least remarkable thing about this day.

I walked into the residence hall (they frown on the word dorm) and saw that the crappy big screen in the common area was tuned to CNN, and the most bizarre image I have ever seen. Black smoke was billowing out of one of the most recognizable buildings in the world – The Pentagon – which took me some time to digest, especially when they flashed over to two other instantly recognizable buildings – both World Trade Center towers. I didn’t quite put it together at first. I saw this image on the screen, but it wasn’t real to me yet. So I ran upstairs to turn on my tv where images like this never appear. I didn’t need to, though; I could hear the sounds of the news coming down the hallway. I watched it. I watched it all. The towers hadn’t fallen yet. When they told us what had happened, there was no mistake. This wasn’t an accident. I kept watching. I cried. I cried a lot that day.

I don’t remember exactly when my parents called, but my mom did, asking, in a panic, if I was all right. I was 800 miles from danger, but it didn’t matter to her. I can understand, though; the people in those office buildings had no reason to expect that Hell would open up in Manhattan and try to grab them. I’d like to think that Hell only managed to claim 10 people in New York that day, with another 5 coming from Washington and 4 more in an obscure field in Pennsylvania, while 2,973 others managed to escape that fiery grasp for a happier destination.

There was other happy news, though, too. Not all of it came immediately, like the story that would raise goosebumps on the dead, hearing the members of Congress gather on the steps of that building to sing “God Bless America.” Some took a few days, like the equally goosebump inspiring British changing of the guard ceremony that took place the following day under the sound of The Star Spangled Banner. We had a president who never looked quite as presidential as he did on that day. We had a mayor who told a Saudi prince that we didn’t need his money if he insisted we take any part of the blame. We all felt like Rudy was our mayor, even if we had never set foot in the City of New York. We all felt like we belonged to the city now, and it to all of us.

We watched it, all day, every moment, on its most vulnerable day. We cried with it, we grieved with it, we prayed with it, we got angry with it. The breathtaking height of these towers, a visibly proclaiming their confidence and worldly importance while gracefully avoiding ostentation, seemed to be twisted unimaginably as they were wounded. That very same height now seemed more to be more of a reach for God, asking for mercy. Although it didn’t seem like it at first considering the magnitude of nearly 3,000 dead, He did indeed grant it; around 16,000 people who stood below the ghastly sight managed to leave safely. Tonight, when you go before God like those towers did, it will be easy to remember the 18,973 people and their families who were there that morning, but don’t forget those who still wish us harm in your prayers, either. We are a big enough nation and people to do that. God Bless America.

"But I tell you: Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you." - Matthew 5:44