Chapter Fourteen. New York City
New York City doesn’t wait for you to get comfortable. It doesn’t slow down. It doesn’t ask permission. It interrupts you - and then, if you’re paying attention, it teaches you something. I’ve come to believe that interruption is one of God’s favorite teaching tools. And for decades, that’s what this city did for me and for the hundreds who traveled with us. It interrupted our assumptions, our fears, our pace of life.
What follows is not a travelogue. It’s a set of sacred interruptions - moments when God showed up through the cracked sidewalks, subway delays, unexpected friendships, and even Broadway improv. The city had a way of holding a mirror up to me, to us, showing who we were—and who we were becoming. These are stories of faith in motion.
My Brooklyn Backyard
Before I share my New York stories, I’d be remiss not to tell you about my backyard growing up - not the grassy kind, but the tar-covered rooftop of a Brooklyn apartment building. Fifth Avenue was my world, but the rooftop - accessible only by climbing out our kitchen window - was my playground. My tricycle waited there for the hottest summer afternoons, and I’d ride in circles, popping warm tar bubbles with the wheels. A two-foot brick wall framed my kingdom.
Neighbors came and went by stepping over that wall and through our kitchen window, like it was the most natural thing in the world. On special days, we’d drag a blow-up pool onto the roof - just a foot deep, filled with hose water stretched from the kitchen sink - and that was summer magic.
As I got older, my skate key became a prized possession. I’d tighten the clamps on my metal roller skates and cruise the side streets, careful to avoid the busier avenues. We played stickball with broom handles and soft pink rubber balls. We traded baseball cards, flipped pennies, and - when luck ran low - lay flat on the ground with a coat hanger and chewed bubble gum, fishing lost coins from beneath the sidewalk grates.
Life was simple then. Joy didn’t come from fancy destinations but from city sprinklers in the park and, on the hottest days, the opening of fire hydrants that sent waves of water pouring down the block - our version of paradise. City life shaped my understanding of the world - it taught me how to navigate chaos, find adventure in small spaces, and understand that the biggest stories often come from the smallest moments. But that wasn’t my only world.
Just a drive through the Lincoln Tunnel brought us to my grandparents’ house in Lake Parsippany, New Jersey, where a completely different life awaited. Gravel roads replaced pavement, grassy yards became playgrounds, and our bikes carried us for miles without the worry of traffic. The lake offered endless opportunities for swimming, kayaking, and racing until the sun dipped behind the trees.
Evenings were for community movies projected on makeshift beach screens. Neighbors watched out for each other’s kids, and berry patches lined the back roads, ours for the taking - if we knew where to look. But the true clock of the town was the 5:00 PM siren, a daily summons that echoed across the neighborhood, signaling it was time to head home for dinner.
That blend of city and country shaped me in more ways than I knew at the time. It taught me to create my own fun, to value simple pleasures, to stay active, and to follow the rules - because when you grow up in Brooklyn, rules are how you survive, and when you grow up in the countryside, rules are how you belong. Life was good. Not perfect, but full - of sound and stillness, structure and freedom, city skylines and country stars.
The Backdoor Travel Concept
Sherri said it best: You taking students to New York City is a gift you’ve given to so many. I’d never thought of it that way. A gift?
Maybe. For me, it was a calling, or perhaps a celebration. Part career, part passion project. A reason to revisit the city that shaped me - and to share it with others.
Over the years, I’ve brought countless groups - mostly Midwestern teens and adults - to New York City. For many, it was their first time stepping into a city with such scale, sound, diversity, and rhythm. But before the flights and the long van rides, the subway swipes, and the skyline selfies, there was always the conversation: how to prepare for more than just a trip… how to see differently.
That’s where Backdoor Travel comes in. It’s a philosophy I live by - and one I share every chance I get. If you get it right, it works anywhere in the world. Whether you're in Venice, Harlem, Mexico, or a place in Ohio, it’s about choosing the path that isn’t always advertised. It's not just about saving money - though you’ll do that too. It’s about walking into unfamiliar spaces with curiosity instead of caution. It’s about learning how to fall in love with a place - its people, its smells, its accents, its imperfections.
Sherri and I never kept track of the numbers: how many groups we led, how many times we returned to the city. It’s just what we do. It’s who we are. Because when you travel through the back door, you stop counting trips and start collecting stories.
So what’s the wisdom of Backdoor Travel?
Walk. Walk until you can’t anymore. Keep your eyes and ears wide open. Wander through neighborhoods that aren’t on tourist maps. Compare them. Contrast them. Step into shops without needing to buy a thing. Watch people. Pet dogs. Feed the pigeons. Sample street food. Smile at strangers. Be present. And New York, if you can swing it, go during the Christmas season. It’s magic.
Forget trying to blend in or not look like a tourist. Be a respectful tourist, a curious one. Read the local paper in the morning to find out what’s happening. Skip the national chain stores and restaurants - you can do that at home. Get coffee and pastries from a corner bakery. Order a hot dog with sauerkraut from a street vendor. Eat a plain slice of pizza, standing up at the counter.
Learn how to ask for directions on the subway. Take the bus across town just for the sights. Hop the Staten Island Ferry at night—watch the city lights sparkle for free. Walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. Pack a lunch and spend hours in Central Park - every section has its own flavor.
Try breakfast at a Chinatown bakery with the locals. Have soul food in Harlem. Window-shop along Fifth Avenue, even if you're not buying. Ride the subway to Coney Island - walk the beach, eat a hot dog from Nathan’s, and people-watch like it's your job.
Don’t be afraid to choose Off-Broadway Shows - or Off-Off Broadway theaters. Visit churches, cathedrals, synagogues—light a candle, breathe in the history. Step into the grand hotels and give yourself a free lobby tour - soak in the elegance, even if you’re staying somewhere simple. And maybe the most important rule of all? Ask a New Yorker what’s missing from this list.
That’s when it gets real. That’s when the wall comes down. Travel with an attitude of What can I learn here? Check your assumptions at the door. Let the diversity of the city challenge and change you. Let it stretch your definition of normal, of beautiful, of safe, of meaningful. Fall in love with the culture. The people. The ordinary moments that aren’t so ordinary when you really stop to notice. This is Backdoor Travel.
Coaching Teens In The City
I probably shouldn’t have expected much sleep that night. I’d eaten way too much New York pizza with our team, and now I was stretched out on the floor, listening to the steady commotion of the Bowery’s streets below. But it wasn’t the noise or the pizza that kept me up—it was restlessness. I was wrestling with whether I should actually go through with our morning plans.
It wasn’t my first time leading a group of students on a weeklong leadership challenge, but I always carry a bit of anxiety with me - whether I show it or not - when stepping into something big.
I kept rehearsing the challenge in my mind. After a quick breakfast of bagels and cream cheese, we’d split into four teams - each made up of four teens and one adult leader. I would hand out maps and send them into different neighborhoods. They’d have one hour. The twist? The adult leaders weren’t allowed to speak. One student per team would be designated as spokesperson, but the adults’ role was simply to offer presence - not answers.
It was a bold challenge. But I believed in these students - young leaders who had already stepped up time and again. Still, asking teens from the rural Midwest to navigate New York City’s streets stretched all of us.
Their task was to find a nonprofit organization to serve during our stay, 2–3 hours a day, for one to four days. We had no tools, no supplies - just willing hands and maybe a small financial gift for materials. And then they were off.
It was one of the longest hours of my life. Looking back, I realize I was either blessed or cursed: this was before the day of cell phones. It all came down to trust - trusting the students, trusting the adults, trusting that God was at work.
The motive was simple: risk is part of leadership. Communicating a willingness to serve is part of being trusted. Each team returned with different results: Team One: nothing firm - Check back tomorrow. Team Two: rejected everywhere. Team Three: found two hours of work for one team. Team Four: Everyone is welcome—every day. Bring gloves.
That evening, we processed everything: the highs, the lows, and the in-betweens. Students shared what it felt like to be rejected, to not be needed, to question what they had to offer. These are moments often unfamiliar in the comfort of home. And yet, we celebrated late that night - with more pizza, of course.
The next morning, we woke up ready. Gloves in hand, we headed to a community garden a few blocks away - what we would later call Bob’s Garden. That day began a ten-year relationship between us and New York City. And Bob? He became both our seventy-year old partner and teacher, showing us the beauty of diversity and the depth of urban life. That garden became our classroom. And a home away from home for me.
The Student Who Asked Why
Bob’s Garden became our anchor over the years. As I discipled youth leaders from Ohio and beyond, many brought small teams to work alongside local volunteers at Bob’s Garden. The work was unglamorous - pulling weeds, repairing garden beds, painting benches, whatever - but it mattered. One of my most treasured memories from those years centers on a student named Becca.
Becca wasn’t part of our local group; she came with a youth team from her church. A big part of our leadership adventure included reflection and teaching sessions - on geography, local culture, Scripture, and what we simply called the why. Why we lead. Why we serve. Why we listen.
One afternoon, Becca pulled me aside during a walk in the garden. She had a question. We sat on a bench. Why is there not a drinking fountain in this garden?
She had clearly thought through installing a fountain - who it would help, where it might go, what it might cost. I smiled. Teenagers don’t always ask questions like that. I gently reminded her we lived five-hundred miles away and only visited once or twice a year. We laughed, and I figured that was the end of the conversation.
It wasn’t.
Months later, Becca tracked down my phone number. She said she was driving through my town and wanted to drop something off. That afternoon, she handed me an envelope packed with fifteen-hundred dollars that she had collected from teachers, neighbors, coaches, family, and friends in her hometown. Enough to fund the installation of a fountain.
What I hadn’t known was that the morning after our talk, Becca went back to the garden and told Bob about her idea. She didn’t make promises, but something had shifted in her - from wondering to doing. Our teaching that summer had been about dreaming big and taking risks. Becca had been listening. The check was sent to Bob, signed simply: The Students Team From Ohio.
The Protest on 86th Street
Some leadership moments are joyful. Some are warm and full of energy. And some - well, some are messy. This was messy. Months after Becca’s gift, we planned to return to the city. I had reached out to coordinate the fountain installation in time for our visit. But if you’ve ever dealt with a city of eight million residents, you find out how many layers bureaucracy can have.
When we arrived that spring, there was no fountain.
What followed was days of finger-pointing. Which department was responsible? Parks? Recreation? Youth Services? No one knew - or seem to care. I didn’t tell the students everything. I still believed it would work out. Maybe by summer. But summer came. We returned. Still no fountain.
Something in me snapped. After talking it through with our team, we made a decision: we were going to protest. Twenty teenagers and adults from the Midwest marched through Manhattan holding handmade signs: We Want Our Fountain! … Give Us Back Our Money!
We split into two groups - the younger students stayed across the street while the rest of us protested in front of the thirty-story building we believed held answers. Security blocked us from entering. So, we chanted. Soon, heads appeared in twelfth-floor windows.
An hour later, a small group of suited officials came down. I met their leader on the sidewalk, our dusty clothes a sharp contrast to their suits and polished shoes. It wasn’t a calm conversation. It was passionate. Loud. Frustrated. (It had New York flavor) But I made our case: The money was real, the promise made, and we were still waiting. The turning point? I told them we’d return the next day to protest again - and this time, apply for a permit. Suddenly, things shifted.
Installation was suddenly possible. I told them we were leaving Tuesday. There was a long pause. Then compromise. That evening, I sat quietly, asking God if I’d done the right thing. I wasn’t sure. Was I fighting for justice—or just trying to win? Was I afraid of disappointing Becca? Was I worried what the parents would think?
But Monday morning, we returned to the garden - and so did the city construction crew. The community garden volunteers brought coffee, bagels and donuts. And together, we watched a backhoe begin digging the trenches. The fountain was being installed. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t even particularly spiritual. But it was good.
And that drive back to Ohio? One of the best rides of my life.
My Short-Lived Broadway Career
Our New York adventurers became die-hard fans of the improv comedy troupe at Chicago City Limits in New York City. With access to legal, discount three-dollar tickets, we often packed the place out - sometimes filling half of the small theater ourselves. Part of the magic of their show was audience participation. They’d ask for a storyline from someone in the audience and then turn it into a full-blown musical, improv-style, with help from the audience.
One night, when they asked for a volunteer who’d experienced something interesting, one of our students didn’t hesitate. Monica’s hand shot up before I even realized what was happening. The cast chose her, and she shared her story of running the U.S. Olympic Torch through our hometown - an honor she earned for her incredible work with kids in her community. Once the cast realized she was from Ohio, the story somehow got even funnier. Their impressions of the Midwest were as skewed and exaggerated as our students had been of NYC—but way more entertaining. It was an evening of laughter – Improv.
Another time, we found ourselves once again at the center of their performance. This round, though, I was the one pulled onstage. Me—Mike Nygren - the same guy who had one line in a high school play and forgot it and decided then that my theater career was over! Suddenly I was part of an Off-Off-Broadway improv show. And let’s just say… my acting career ended again as quickly as it began. I was terrible. But the audience didn’t know that. To folks back home, it was Broadway. I’ve let them believe that ever since.
Looking back, those nights were more than three-dollar tickets - they were moments of joy, surprise, and stepping outside of comfort zones. Even when I bombed, I learned something about myself: God has a sense of humor, and He’s not finished teaching me how to laugh at myself.
Round Two With the N.Y.P.D.
Eliza, a former student of mine, was in a leadership role at her college. She had invited me to lead a team of seven students and their advisor on a long weekend of cultural immersion in New York City. We found a church to stay at near a subway line - an ideal base for four packed days of city sessions, sightseeing, and bucket-list adventures.
On our final night, the team headed to a Broadway Show while Eliza and I caught up with an old friend in the city. We agreed to reconvene with the team at the church afterward.
We got back early, hoping to meet the group as they returned. The church locked up each night, and we’d been told to call a contact to let us in. Seemed like a solid plan - until we called…and called…and called. Voicemail after voicemail. No answer. And this was pre-cell phone, so we had no backup.
Time passed - thirty minutes, then nearly an hour. My anxiety grew. Our luggage and airline tickets were locked inside, and our flight was painfully early the next morning. To make matters worse, the near-by subway line had shut down for repairs, which meant our students might not even make it back easily.
We circled the church looking for any way in. Eventually, we spotted a small open window. Eliza, ever the quick thinker, climbed through to unlock the front door. The moment she stepped inside, the alarm went off. Loudly. Continually.
We froze.
Realizing there was no undoing it, we chose to wait outside and explain ourselves to the police. The first two officers were at the end of their shifts and not remotely amused. They suggested we try the shelter down the street and shut the door in our faces, muttering something about breaking and entering. That was… not reassuring.
Then, two more officers showed up - thankfully with a better sense of humor. They listened to our story, shrugged, and confirmed that they couldn’t help either. And then—just when hope was running on fumes - a man appeared. Elderly, slow-moving, clearly not someone we had called. He shuffled up the steps with a key in hand, saying he was just stopping by the church.
Eliza didn’t miss a beat. With her signature charm, she acted like we knew him well and thanked him for rescuing us. In his confusion, he let us in. We still don’t know who he was or why he showed up, but we didn’t question it. Wondering if possibly it was a God thing.
Minutes later, the students arrived - tired, grateful, and completely unaware of how close they’d come to sleeping at a shelter. I don’t think I’ve ever been more relieved to board a plane than I was the next morning.
To this day, I wonder about that man. Maybe it was coincidence. Or maybe, just maybe, it was one of those sacred moments where God sends help in the most unexpected form: an older man with a key and no questions.
New York Through The Grandkids Eyes
Over the years, we’ve brought hundreds of teens and adults to New York City - but nothing compares to traveling there with our grandchildren. For Hayden, Tyler, and Savannah, New York City wasn’t just a place on a map. It was a playground, a classroom, a maze of subway tunnels, food carts, and unexpected magic. And through their eyes, it became something even more extraordinary.
That day, the kids, Sherri, and I crammed into a yellow cab and gave the driver the address - eighty-blocks downtown, at the worst time of day. Traffic was a mess, but our spirits weren’t. We talked, laughed, and soaked in the strange joy of being squished together with nowhere to be fast. Somewhere around Midtown, the driver suddenly pulled over and double-parked. I looked at him, confused. Everything okay? He turned, looked at me, and smiled. Are you Mike from Ohio?
My jaw dropped. One of the kids gasped. Papa’s famous!
As it turns out, the driver (one of the twenty-thousand taxi drivers in the city) lived in the Bowery neighborhood and also volunteered at the garden. He knew Bob well and had heard about the group from Ohio that kept showing up, year after year, to help out. When we arrived at the garden the driver would not allow us to pay for the trip. It’s on me! It’s hard to forget stories like that! We talk about that story all the time now. It’s our reminder that kindness leaves a trail, that the world is smaller than we think—and that sometimes, your grandkids get to see you as something more than just the person who pays for dinner.
And then there was the blizzard.
The day after Christmas, we made our almost annual five-hundred mile trek to the city. The weatherman was calling for snow, but the skies were mostly clear. That is, until a few flurries started drifting through the windshield just outside the Lincoln Tunnel in New Jersey. When we emerged onto the street, it was like stepping into a movie set. The city had been hit by a surprise blizzard just eighteen hours before - snowdrifts towered six to eight feet along the sidewalks, plows were still carving paths, and the streets were eerily quiet except for the occasional emergency vehicle rumbling by.
Thankfully, our hotel was only a few blocks from the tunnel. But for the next 48 hours, we lived in a Winter Wonder Wonderland. For three kids raised in the Midwest, New York snow was in a league of its own—especially with Central Park piled high like some kind of urban arctic playground. Snowball fights, giant drifts, sledding with makeshift sleds - what more could you ask for?
It wasn’t the Broadway shows or the holiday lights that made that trip unforgettable. It was the surprise. The chaos. The joy of discovering that sometimes, the best part of your agenda is what you didn’t plan at all. New York City gave our grandchildren more than memories. It gave them stories. And in sharing those stories, they remind us that every journey is a little bit magical when you experience it hand-in-hand.
The Candlelight Dinner
Writing this book, I’ve had to choose carefully. There are probably more than a hundred New York stories I could tell—but if I can only leave you with one, let it be this one.
It began like so many other trips to New York: separately arriving from Ohio, connecting with a team of teens and adults, and checking in at the front door of a men’s shelter in the Bowery—a familiar place that always felt, somehow, like coming home. The adult leading the team was a former student of ours, and now a high school faculty member in Ohio - we were there to guide a group of young leaders through a week of service, challenge, and reflection.
The plan was simple: help where help was needed. Painting, organizing, a little work in the kitchen. But more than anything, the goal was to be present. To listen. To serve with humility.
Midweek, during one of our evening sessions, the students decided they wanted to do something special for the residents: a formal dinner—real tablecloths, candles, music, the works. They split into teams: one for food, one for atmosphere, one for entertainment. They had forty-eight hours to pull it off.
Dinner was scheduled for 8:00 p.m. - a time chosen with the understanding that the men had responsibilities and routines that needed to be honored. By 7:45, the room looked stunning. Candles flickered on tables dressed in linen. A small band of students tuned guitars in the corner. The kitchen team stood ready with plates stacked high. But as the clock ticked past 8:00… no one came.
By 8:15, the only person to appear was a longtime friend of mine—a resident I’d known for years. He pulled me aside and quietly said, Mike… I don’t think they’re coming. I was stunned. Why not?
They’re nervous. They don’t know what to make of all this. Fancy meals? Teenagers serving them? Being seen like this—it’s just not something they’re used to. And they’re scared. This kind of kindness can feel risky.
I nodded. I understood. But I also knew the students needed to hear this—not from me, but from him. So I asked him to be the one to explain it to them. And then… something beautiful happened.
One by one, the men began to trickle in. First one. Then two. Then five. By 9:00 p.m., the room was full. The students stepped into their roles like seasoned professionals—welcoming, serving, pouring drinks, clearing plates. The meal was delicious. The laughter was real. And the connection was unmistakable.
We played simple games to break the ice—teens asking questions about city life, and the men asking about farms and cornfields. There was joking, teasing, storytelling. The walls came down. You could feel the shift in the room. And then came the music.
One student picked up his guitar and began what we thought would be a closing song - a quiet way to end the night. But it turned into something far more powerful. As the chords filled the room, the men began to hum. Then sing. And then, without prompting, one stood up and said, There’s a hymn I used to sing in my grandma’s church down in North Carolina. Can you play this one?
He sang the first few lines, soulfully, tenderly - and the room followed. Men who had spent years carrying shame, regret, addiction, and loneliness found something sacred in that moment. They sang like they had nothing to lose. And maybe for the first time in a long while, they had something to gain: peace, memory, maybe even a touch of healing.
I looked around the room and saw teenagers caught somewhere between awe and heaven. They didn’t have words for what they were witnessing - but their tears said enough. No one had planned a worship service that night. But that’s exactly what we got.
It wasn’t in a sanctuary. It wasn’t on a stage. It was in a third-floor common room of a halfway house, under dim lights, with mismatched chairs and leftover decorations. And yet—God was there. Unmistakably. And maybe, just maybe, every man in that room—young and old - left believing that God Isn’t Finished Yet..
New York City Closing Thoughts
Taking students and leaders to New York City did more than expose them to a new place - it opened their hearts to complexity, diversity, and deep empathy. The city, in all its chaos and beauty, held up a mirror, revealing not only who they were but who they were becoming. Interruptions became invitations - inviting courage, curiosity, and compassion. And somewhere between the cracked sidewalks, the subway maps, and the garden soil, many began to carry a different kind of vision for the world and their role in it.