A Manufactured Crisis

The ones that crash into us without invitation, and the ones we create for ourselves

Dear friends,
I want to highlight two books that have been in progress for a long time. The Skeptical Catholic is almost ready to share. It’s in the final stages of development with the printer. It’s taking a little longer than expected because I insisted on one more inspection. It’s coming soon, and I’m really excited to share it with you.

The second title is “A Manufactured Crisis”, which is very personal and deep with reflection and how faith can grow through the biggest storms in life we face. Some manufactured crises come at us without invitation; but others we manufacture ourselves. This work is still in draft form, but I’ve decided to share the preface and first chapter below, to see what it stirs up inside of you. It’s a book that makes me vulnerable, and so, it’s not the easiest to share. Below is my start, and if interest exists, I will publish excerpts until the book is complete and ready to see light. Here it is. Let me know what you think. :)

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“A Manufactured Crisis: Learning to Fly Again”
By John Henry

Preface

I pioneered the title A Manufactured Crisis long before recent politics made the phrase popular. It was born from a deep realization—one that we all eventually come to understand. Some crises arrive without warning. They are unfair, unexpected collisions that leave us disoriented and shaken. Others, however, are manufactured by our own choices—avoidable, yet devastating all the same.

For years, this book has lived inside of me, woven into the sorrowful and private places of my mind. But now, it is time to share it. Because this isn’t just a story about me. It’s a story about us.

I suspect that readers will see themselves reflected in these pages. And they should. The lessons I have learned are not mine alone. They belong to anyone who has ever faced regret, anyone who has longed for redemption, and anyone who has struggled to trust again after life has broken their heart.

This is a story about redemption. It is a story of hard lessons—honest and, at times, painful. It is an exploration of the choices we make and how those choices shape the lives we lead. But most of all, it is a story of hope.

This is a vulnerable story. I invite you, the reader, to walk through it with me—to travel through the soaring heights, the tragic lows, and the lessons that taught me what real love is and what it means to stand in the burning sting of tears.

And if nothing else, I hope this book does one simple thing: I hope it makes you hug the people you love a little tighter. And hold on just a little longer.

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Chapter One: Wheels Up

I looked out my side window. Ivan stood in the grass giving me the two-thumbs-up sign. How did I trick him into thinking I could do this by myself? My hands were slick, my heart pounded, and I knew—at that moment—I buy the wrong antiperspirant.

In the sweat of my shirt lay a story about me. Ivan once told me it was a tradition for flight instructors to cut the back off the shirt worn by their student on the day of their first solo flight.

“In the sweat of your shirt,” he explained, “is all your hard work, effort, time, fear, and anxiety.”

“And money, too,” I added.

He grinned. “Yes, and money, too.”

I didn’t realize how easy it would be to sweat through a shirt on a cold winter morning.

Flying solo on that frigid December day wasn’t the first time I’d encountered heart-pounding moments. In fact, my life is a collection of such experiences: being kidnapped as a child, climbing through the smoldering rubble of the World Trade Center, enduring a bloody attack by a masked intruder, and, of course, surviving Disney’s Tower of Terror! Each story comes with its own mix of fear, triumph, and perspective—but none prepared me for the sheer vulnerability of sitting alone in the cockpit of a Cessna, staring down the runway.

The morning started like any other flight lesson. It was a cold December morning in 2004, and Ivan, my flight instructor, and I met for breakfast at the tiny airport diner at Brookhaven Airport in Shirley, Long Island. The place smelled like burnt coffee and fried bacon, the kind of airport diner where the coffee mugs have permanent stains, and the waitresses call you "hon" whether you've been there once or a hundred times.

As we sat over a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, Ivan went over the day’s plan. “Just going to practice takeoffs and landings today,” he said, barely looking up from his coffee.

That sounded reasonable. I was getting comfortable in the air, confident in my ability to follow procedures. It was just another routine day.

We took off together, made one circle around the airport, and landed. So far, so good. But then, something happened that was not on the agenda.

Ivan turned to me and said, “Stop the plane on the taxiway.”

I stopped.

Ivan, without hesitation, shut down the plane, opened his door, and got out.

Then, standing outside the aircraft, he looked back at me and said the words that sent ice through my veins:

"It's time for your first solo."

Excuse me?

I turned my head toward him, trying to comprehend what had just come out of his mouth. Surely, he misspoke. Surely, this was some kind of sick joke.

Before I could find enough saliva in my mouth to form an argument, he continued, “I’ll talk to you over the radio.” Then, just like that, he took his handheld radio and walked awa

My checklist was a mix of professional protocol and personal panic:

• Compass: Set.

• Landing light: On.

• Fuel switch: Set to “Both.”

• Stomach: In knots.

• Palms: Sweaty.

• Knees: Weak.

• Attitude: Could be better.

I made the Sign of the Cross.

Ivan stood off to the side, giving me a thumbs-up.

With a deep breath, I pushed the button under my thumb on the yoke and made the radio call:

"Brookhaven Traffic, Cessna 1-7-2 taking off, Runway 16, Student pilot."

Then, with no other option left, I pushed the throttle to full power and began my takeoff roll.

At 66 knots, I pulled back on the yoke.

And suddenly—I was airborne. Alone.

I expected panic. I expected crippling fear to grip me as soon as I realized that I was the only one in the cockpit.

But something strange happened.

The moment the wheels left the ground, the fear was suspended. It had to be. There was no room for it. This was happening, and I needed to focus.

At about 800 feet, I pushed the button under my thumb and made the next radio call:

"Brookhaven traffic: Skyhawk 1-7-2 turning left crosswind, student pilot."

At 1,100 feet, I leveled off and made my next call.

"Brookhaven traffic, Skyhawk 1-7-2, turning downwind, student pilot."

I emphasized “student pilot” in every radio call. My way of saying, I have no idea what I’m doing, so please, for your own safety, stay far, far away!

When I lined up with the runway and prepared for landing, I pulled back the throttle, and waited for the plane to cross the numbers and float right above the runway.

When the stall warning buzzed, I waited for the plane’s wings to “stall” and then create some back pressure on the yoke, lifiting the nose just a little bit, and touched down as smooth as I had ever landed. Ivan said it should be as if the wheels “kissed” the ground.

I did it. This was one of those times that you smile, even if you want to appear serious.

And then, with an adrenaline rush I’d never felt before, I pushed the button on the yoke and asked Ivan, "Can I do that again?"

His reply? "Yes! Cleared for takeoff!"

I took off and landed three times total that day.

After my final landing, I taxied back to the hangar and shut down the engine.

I sat completely still for 30 seconds, mesmerized by what had just happened.

Then, I opened the door, stepped onto the tarmac, and took my first breath as a solo pilot.

Ivan and another instructor rushed toward me.

Ivan reached out, shook my hand, smiled, and said the words that I will never forget:

"Congratulations! Now you're one of us."

I felt that sentence deep in my soul.

And that was enough.

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Let me know what you think! I look forward to your comments. I look forward to sharing more. In the meantime, God bless each of you! -Semper ad Lucem!