Proverbs 18:24 says, “There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”
Terry is such a friend. We met in the spring of 2001 when I moved to Kentucky to preach for a church in Madisonville. I stayed nine years, and our friendship has not only endured, but it has also deepened since that time together. We were like “iron sharpening iron,” and we made each other a better version of ourselves through the process. Terry’s wife was our family’s doctor whom I credit with saving my father’s life in 2003; she chose family and friendship over policy. Terry himself played the role of Santa Clause one New Years Eve, but that is another story saved for another day. Terry and I ate many dinners together, baptized an unknown number of golf balls off the fairway, and offered encouragement to each other’s children and their pursuit of sports, scouting, or spiritual matters. Oh, and before I fail to clarify, Terry was born and raised on a farm in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, Canada.
“There is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.”
On the Sunday morning following September 11, 2001, I stood before my congregation to speak words of hope in the wake of a week from hopeless and dreadful feelings. I heard the news of a plane flying into the Twin Towers when a church member, dropping her daughter off at our preschool, stepped into my office to tell me the news. I went online to USA Today to read the headline that confirmed her story. A plane had flown into the north tower, but the article, since it was still in the process of being written, was unavailable. On Wednesday night our church held a prayer session, and on Sunday morning another time was set aside for prayer.
I stood before the church, and while I have no memory of the sermon, I do remember the words I spoke in the prelude to the sermon. I acknowledged the hurt, pain, and loss of the moment when words were inadequate to capture the emotions. I told the congregation that churches in and around New York City were forever changed as a spot occupied by a church member last week, would be empty today, and emptied every Sunday thereafter. That is an unqualifiable loss.
I then looked at my friend, Terry, his wife and their two sons. My mind flashed back two months earlier when their small church group had prepared lunch after services. Being the new preacher, our family was invited to eat with that group. The fellowship hall was decorated with red and white Maple leaves to celebrate the birthday of our neighbors up north. We sang, O Canada, so that our Canadian brother and sister felt a little more at home in the land of Kentucky.
All of that flashed through my mind as I looked at my friend and his family and acknowledged that I am in no way an official representative of the United States. Still, Terry and his family were by no means official representatives of Canada. So, what happened next worked out, unofficially, just fine. I said, “On behalf of the United States, we thank you for the generous hospitality shown to the Americans, and others, stranded since 9-11.” And with those words, the church applauded our Canadian brother and sister.
I thanked them. Maybe you were too young to know. Or maybe, you are too old to remember. But in the fog of uncertainty from 9-11, the US cleared its air space, shut down all the airports, and grounded all the planes. Security was top priority and the government was making decisions in the dark. Not only were there a lot of questions to be answered, but a lot of uncertainty in the moment. No one knew when the next shoe might drop.
In that moment, Canada took a bold and beautiful step of faith. They initiated Project Yellow Ribbon.
Yellow Ribbon. A call back to an earlier era when the US Calvary wore bright blue uniforms striped with yellow piping, and a yellow scarf. Back home, the young ladies wore a yellow ribbon as a reminder of their husband or boyfriend’s deployment in the military. From pop culture, Smokey Robinson’s song of a man out on parole who has written a letter to his girl. He’s coming into town on the bus and if he doesn’t see a yellow ribbon in the old oak tree, as the song says, “I’ll stay on the bus, forget about us.” For his story, he not only saw a yellow ribbon, but he saw a hundred yellow ribbons ‘round the old oak tree.
The yellow ribbon is a sign of hope and solidarity. Thus, Canada’s steps reflected solidarity with the United States. Over two hundred flights, filled with 33,000 passengers, were diverted away from US airspace and were welcomed by the Canadian government to local airports. Out of harms way, though still a risky move on their part, they didn’t stop there. Canadians in the small towns surrounding these airports opened their homes to the passengers, practicing hospitality at its best. Strangers opening their homes to strangers, only to become fast friends and family. For days, they were given food, shelter, and bedding. They were safe, warm, and well-fed when they could have been stranded and left to survive on their own. On September 14, a hundred thousand Canadians in Ottawa gathered to mourn the loss and devastation, once again, in solidarity with the United States. For the next thirteen years, 40,000 Canadian soldiers would go to Afghanistan to fight and die alongside American soldiers. Solidarity. Operation Yellow Ribbon by any measure, was a success.
So now you understand why I thanked my Canadian friend, Terry, and his family. Looking back, I wish I could have offered a gift. I should have. Maybe a yellow ribbon. Maybe provide yellow ribbons to everyone in our congregation. Maybe. But what I did was acknowledge and thank them. And that might have been good enough. For there is a friend who sticks closer to you than a brother. And that friend, was Canada.
Soli Deo Gloria!
(i.e., only God is glorified!)