July 9, 2018, 6:30 a.m. Indianapolis airport…
I sit in a cafe sipping mediocre coffee to cap off a $20 breakfast. It’s a price I’m willing to pay for the peace of mind to be at the gate several hours early to collect myself.
December, 1983 to Kansas City…
I become jazzed for Jesus at a New Year’s Eve prayer party sponsored by Campus Crusade for Christ. I return and discover all my possessions had been taken from my apartment. I spend the night at a local IHOP, witnessing to the waitress. For a tip, I leave two quarters and a tract, all I have left to give.
March, 1988 to Boston…
I visit a woman I met on a mission farm in Georgia. I spend the days reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X and the nights belittling her for being an upper-class liberal.
October, 1992 to San Francisco…
I travel with my wife and infant daughter. I became so driven to write a book on faithful fathering that I leave them with the in-laws while I go off to find a library.
September, 2006 to JFK…
On my way to serve as Savior-in-residence at a church wandering in the wilderness. I was more than willing to offer my family and mental health as a burnt offering.
July 9, 2018; 6:30 pm, Syracuse
Construction all around. The airport is a mess. I’m exhausted, but relatively sane. I think I still prefer driving.
Does flying affect your mood stability? If you have a mental illness, what happens when you fly?
