Goodbyes become normal in our community; we have a metaphorical revolving door at the front of our office that is continually set on a spin cycle. It’s difficult and beautiful and an incredible opportunity to learn how to dive deep, love deeper, and send people off with joy, celebration, and rejoicing.
But it’s also a time of wet eyes, lumps in throats, and unexpected emotions of grief in 3o’clock meetings.
“I once asked myself how to stop wanting something.
The only thing I heard back was that I had to start wanting something else more.
So began the transition into the new season of what I pray actually gets me to that point. And here now is where you find me; three months later on a midnight Friday eve, lying restless in my bed staring at the ceiling and talking to myself. I’d tell you that at least I haven’t started talking back, but I’m not sure that would be entirely true.
I’m currently sitting under a pavilion in White River, South Africa. We’re staying at Manna Christian Fellowship, a church that welcomed in our entire squad for free after we realized we were up a river with no paddle and nowhere to stay at the end of month four.
So we’re utilizing tents and hammocks while I enjoy my last five days on the field with my entire squad together; a last hoo-rah before my co-leaders and I leave them to start the next chapter of our lives.
I was still in Georgia, walking back to the car in a joy filled mood after a winning game and the traditional Friday night firework show to cap it all off. We walked slow, letting the crowd file out as to enjoy the weather of a summer’s day end; stalling in the parking lot as we shot the breeze.
That’s when he approached us.
I think there always comes those points in our walk with Christ when realizations about ourselves hit us in the face like those pop-flies we didn’t see headed our way because we were too busy picking the flowers at our feet.
And it hurts.
That’s where I found myself the other night as I laid on the bamboo floor, writing by the light of a slowly dying headlamp and wishing that my pen wasn’t leading me in the direction I seemed to be going.
the unscripted wing 