Tag: travel

Israel Part Three: With the Memory of Mary

On the Sunday after our arrival, we set out after church toward Magdala, the hometown of one Mary Magdalene. It was an excavation uncovered only a few years ago, ruins of the city unearthed after all this time. I stepped out into the dust of an old, forgotten town and tried to imagine what it was like when she was there. I saw the remaining stones of the synagogue young Mary would have frequented, and I tried to imagine her there as a child. Was she precocious? Did she squirm or whisper or daydream? Or did she sit as still as the stones around her, enraptured by the idea of a coming Savior?

We don’t know when this happened or how old she was when it did, but Scripture tells us that Mary suffered from demon possession. Though it doesn’t give us the details of how the affliction manifested itself in her, there has never been a case of “mild” demon possession. I let my imagination fill in the gaps of Mary’s story as I walked through what remained of her city. She must have looked atrocious. Fierce. Out of control. She was a prisoner in her own skin. Trapped like a frightened animal caught in a cage. Isolated and oppressed with no hope of escape.

We don’t know much about her family or her community, but I have to wonder about how they treated her in her illness. Did they see her as a threat? As a liability? As an embarrassment? Was she kept behind closed doors or sent far away?

Walking around the ruins of that city, I wondered what her first encounter with Jesus was like. Had she heard the whispers about Him? Had the demons inside her become more violent and demonstrative because they sensed their time in her body was nearing an end? Did she long to get close, or did she try to hide her infirmities?

I don’t know how they came to be face-to-face. I don’t know if she met Him on the road or heard Him in the synagogue or hosted Him in her family’s home. Wherever it was though, Jesus stepped right into the middle of her sickness, her hopelessness, her loneliness, and commanded the storm inside her to be still. At the sound of His voice, the demons fled. And for the first time since the siege had begun on her body and mind, Mary breathed a sigh of relief. Reeling with her newfound freedom, she lifted her face and locked eyes with her Savior.

Not just the Savior she’d heard of all her life. The One who was coming for the salvation of her people, for the entire human race. Oh, it was Him alright. That same Savior who was the promised Messiah from the big picture prophecies. But I wonder if in that moment, looking into His compassionate countenance, she realized that He was also the Savior who had come for her specifically. For Mary of Magdala. He was the Savior who had come to set her free.


This wasn’t the first time I’d thought of Mary Magdalene on this trip. In last week’s blog, I mentioned my moments at The Garden Tomb on the first day, but I didn’t tell you that while I was there, her shadow slipped in and sat beside me on that bench in the shade. I thought of how terrified she must have been in those moments alone outside the tomb. I wondered if she slept a wink that first night after her Savior and friend drew His last breath. I imagined she tossed and turned with fear. While the other disciples cowered behind locked doors and slammed shutters fearing political repercussions for their associations with Jesus, Mary might have been terrorized by even more gruesome prospects. Who could think of Roman capture or religious scorn when the memory of an enemy far greater and more oppressive lingered at the door of her mind. I wondered if she turned over unthinkable questions as she grieved. Would the demons return to reclaim what Jesus had set free? Now that He was gone, was she no longer safe? Would the peace she had known since her liberation be coming to an end?

Sitting there on a wooden bench listening to the Gospel presentation, I went in my mind to the scene in John 20. Mary stands in the garden weeping. The body of her Savior has been stolen, and the wounds of her grief, still raw from the past three days, are ripped wide open.

“…she turned around and saw Jesus standing there, but she did not realize that it was Jesus. He asked her, ‘Woman, why are you crying? Who is it you are looking for?’ Thinking he was the gardener, she said, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’

He called her by name, and in that instant, she knew it was Him. He was alive, and she was safe. The ghosts and shadows of old demons disappeared in the light of His presence, at the sound of His voice.

I’ve talked about this before, but it still grips me with such power when I think of it. Jesus knows our names. He is simultaneously the Savior of the whole, nameless world, and the Savior of each one of us specifically. Individually. Personally. He is the God who stepped into humanity’s collective mess, and He is the God who steps into my mess. And because I know the whole story, I don’t cry at the tomb for same reason Mary did in John 20.

My tears spill down my cheeks out of overwhelming gratitude.

Gratitude for broken chains.

For debts paid.

For life when I deserved death.

For a personal Savior who looked on me with compassion and called out my name.

And sitting there with the memory of Mary Magdalene close by, I heard Him call it again. Take a moment, and be still, friend. Sit with us here, and listen closely.

Don’t you hear Him calling yours?

 

 

 

 

Israel Part Two: In the Shadow of an Empty Tomb

At 11:30 AM, we stepped off a crowded airplane after fifteen hours of travel and immediately crammed onto a tour bus. The melatonin I’d taken on the plane had done little to aid my rest, and it was a dark and sleepy 3:30 AM back in Tennessee. Bleary-eyed, I stared through the window, trying to soak in this reality. I was finally here.

Somewhere old. Somewhere new.

After lunch, we started with the Mount of Olives and walked down through the streets on the Palm Sunday route. The overlook outside the church on the Mount of Olives stood opposite the Eastern gate once opened for the entering Savior. Days before He was crucified, Jesus rode into Jerusalem, through that gate, under the high praise of the people who would call for His life to be taken only a few days later.

This was the view Jesus saw as He wept over the city that would reject him. Yet He rode on anyway, steadfast toward the cross.

Out of His great love, He rode on.

On our trek down the mountain, we stopped at the Garden of Gethsemane. It was Thursday, and that was not lost on me. I began to imagine that Thursday all those years ago. My Savior in this place, the night before His crucifixion. A lump caught in my throat as I read aloud the Scripture describing His moments in that place. “And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly…” (Lk. 22:44a)

I saw Him there, kneeling in the dust beneath the shadow of a tree. This was the garden that had watched great drops of blood fall from His forehead and stain the earth below. I saw Him there, rocking back and forth slowly in agony.

Agony. I couldn’t let go of that word as I stared into the garden. Agony on my behalf. On behalf of every human heart and the cost redemption would require.

There are two sites in Jerusalem where they believe Jesus’ burial and resurrection may have occurred, and truthfully, the one we saw a few days later has a few more geographical points in its favor. But I wasn’t here to double check for absolute certain that the tomb was empty. I believed the answer to that question a long time ago.

I was here to worship.

Once I crossed the threshold of our final stop for day one, my heart snapped to attention. The Garden Tomb. This is what I came for, I thought. I can’t miss it. I cannot miss this moment.

But oh, how I was weary. The sights had been heavy and hard to process while moving so quickly through each stop, and the day had been unbelievably long.

I was jet lagged and exhausted, and the Israeli desert had been relentless; I was inching closer to dehydration and ready to find a cool place to sit for a while.

And wouldn’t you know, I found rest in the garden.

We were ushered into the shade of gracious trees and allowed to sit and rest our aching legs and feet.

And as I recount this story, I think how very right that is, that we should find rest there outside the empty tomb.

Because the empty tomb means rest for more than aching bones. It means rest for tired hearts who are worn plumb out from fighting for their own freedom. It means rest for the broken spirits who are weary from striving toward perfection. It means rest for all the lost and abandoned souls who have worked hard to be found worthy of finding. It means rest from grief, from loss, from shame.

The empty tomb means victory. Release. Life instead of death.


We sat in the garden just outside the tomb listening to a tour guide named Caesar share again the story of redemption. Its familiarity made it no less overwhelming. That a God like that would love a girl like me. Would love me so fiercely and unconditionally that He would wrap Himself in human flesh, live a sinless life, and die on a shameful cross, all to pay the price for my sin.

To redeem me.

It’s the greatest story ever told. The whole reason we were there.  

It was a powerful moment hearing that truth spoken in the very land where it all happened, and I will never forget that experience. But here’s what is absolutely, without a doubt true: it’s a powerful story anywhere. It’s a powerful love that finds you wherever you are today. You don’t have to fly all the way around the world to find rest at an empty tomb. You don’t have to have a passport to experience peace.

The beauty of the Gospel is that Jesus came to us.

And because the tomb is empty, because He is alive, He comes to us still.

Wherever you are, whatever circumstances hem you in today, whatever battles you have looming in the distance, Jesus will meet you there. Right there in the middle of it. He has not forgotten you. He has not abandoned you or written you off as a lost cause. He has come close, and He invites you to sit in the garden, unload every burden, and rest in the shadow of an empty tomb.

Israel Part One: Welcome Back

When I arrived home from my world travels a few weeks ago, I was greeted cheerfully by my $10 doormat that reads cheekily, “Hello Gorgeous.”

I was not in that moment.

I was filthy with the grime of 20+ hours in airports, on planes, above oceans. I had spent an entire day in the company of thousands of other tired, gross voyagers, so I knew with certainty that my welcome mat was being intentionally hurtful.

But I didn’t really care, because I was home.

If you’re reading this and wondering where I’ve been recently, I’d point you to everywhere. July was all over the map. Truthfully, 2018 has been all over the map. I worried last week as I pulled up to the Nashville airport for the gazillionth time that they might start charging me rent.

But if you’re asking about the only trip that required my passport, I’d point you to a sliver of land between Jordan and Egypt.


I was offered the opportunity to join the team going to Israel less than twenty days before the departure date. A spot had opened up, and I had about three hours to decide if I wanted to take it.

Because I am who I am and old habits die incredibly hard and slow deaths, I began immediately thinking of all the reasons not to go. There was a whole crew of them but the one at the wheel, the captain at the helm of the ship, was a familiar face. Fear herself, barking orders to hoist the sail and ride the wind of doubt right on out of this idea.

It was risky.

I hadn’t seen an agenda after all, and if you don’t already know this about me, listen close: I DO NOT LIKE TO TRAVEL WITHOUT AN AGENDA.

It makes me crazy not to have the details typed neatly out in all the trip’s color-coded glory.

But I had no itinerary, no plan, no idea what was ahead of me. All I saw was a door swung wide open and an opportunity to walk through it. In a matter of hours, I had to decide if I was going to be brave enough to get on the plane.

The only option was a blind yes or no.


Do you know that feeling right after you decide to jump straight into the pool instead of easing into the water? The feeling of nervous anticipation? You know the water will be cold, a shock to your system. You know it will take your breath away and be a little uncomfortable the minute you hit the water. But you’ve already decided to jump. You’ve made the preliminary decision to be brave, and there’s no backing out now. All that’s left to do is close your eyes, hold your breath, and jump.

That’s how I felt when I arrived at the airport on our departure date. Completely out of control in the best way possible. I got on the plane (still) without a color-coded agenda and with only a handful of informational tidbits as to what the next two weeks would hold. But I had already decided to trust the Lord with this trip; now it was time to put my feet in the water, and watch Him fold the river back.


A few days before I left, I picked up a pen again. Not a metaphorical pen. A real one. My favorite actually—a Pilot G-2 07.

(Pilot, if you’re listening, give me a shout if y’all need a spokesperson. My supply is running low, and my sponsorship fee can be paid in pink and purple ink.)

Though I normally gravitate toward a keyboard, a blank Word doc, and a blinking cursor, I felt like I needed to remind myself of what it felt like to hold the instrument in my hand.

And the truth is, the blinking cursor had been taunting and intimidating me for months. I haven’t published anything since Christmas for a lot of different reasons: busyness with work, the aforementioned all-over-the-mapness, responsibilities, deadlines, etc. All valid and understandable, season-oriented reasons. But I’d be lying if I didn’t mention Fear as well. There’s always a persistent, low whisper in the back of my mind that wonders if I’ve run out.

Maybe the last creative thought I had was the last creative thought I’ll ever have. Maybe the last cohesive piece I wrote was the best it’ll ever be. Maybe the gift and joy of writing has run dry.

So the command to write has lived in perpetual purgatory on my to-do list for the last seven months. Some days, it barked bossily at me to get up and put some words on a page for crying out loud. Other days, it just looked mournfully up at me wondering what it had done wrong to make me desert it so completely.

But a few weeks ago, as I sat with my notebook in my lap and my pen in my hand, I began to remember some very important things. I began to remember how much I needed it. Watching the life-blood of my favorite pen run out behind my thoughts, I remembered that this was my best chance of untangling the knots in my head and in my heart. I remembered that this is my best hope of unloading what’s heavy.


The Lord used my trip to work out a lot of things in my heart and mind, but each one fit inside a constant theme: Would I be brave? Would I trust Him enough to take Him at His Word? To follow Him into the unknown without an itinerary or agenda? Would I be obedient and take the next right step, wherever that led?

For me, in this moment, the next right step is to ignore Fear and write it all down. To pull out my pen and spill some ink.

 

Names Matter

Part I

There are 704,352 people in Seattle, WA. I stood among throngs of them just a few weeks ago—exchanged glances, made way for passersby, bumped shoulders, watched, smelled, listened.

It was my very first time on the West Coast. In all my 24 years, the furthest I’d ever been across the country was a family trip to the Grand Canyon when I was a child. I had planned my visit months ago when my parents suggested I go visit their friends Stuart and Lisa Bell who had moved to downtown Seattle last October as church planters.

After visiting the city and hearing God’s call to relocate about a year and a half prior, the couple sold and gave away most of their personal belongings, packed what remained in a storage unit, piled their clothes and essentials in their jeep, and made their way to Seattle, WA from Bentonville, AR.

The Bells met me at baggage claim with a hug and a smile. Apart from a brief interaction when I was very small, I had never met these folks, but I immediately felt at home.

Throughout my visit, I walked all over downtown Seattle. For 20,000 steps, I followed closely behind Stuart and Lisa, watching all the way at how they interacted with their city.

Periodically, we would stop on a corner or glance out the bus window at a landmark or site, and Lisa would educate me on the history or significance it carried. It was clear every time that the couple had already fallen head over heels for their new city and had taken great care to learn its story.

When I arrived to my room in their Queen Anne apartment, there was a document for me to keep with stats and facts about Seattle and maps on the wall with markers indicating the locations of other church plants. There were only a handful.

Stuart and Lisa filled me in on the challenges of planting a church in a city like Seattle and on the challenges they’ve had personally in relocating to a place so very far away from all that was loved and familiar to them. But more than their challenges, they told me with great excitement of all the victories the Lord has shown them in less than a year. While seemingly small to those who aren’t really looking, they are nothing short of miraculous to Stuart and Lisa, who know full well that God is a God of careful detail. Every victory is an advancement of the Gospel.

Part II

There are ­­704,352 people in Seattle, WA.

On our way from the airport to their apartment, we saw only a handful of that number. We took a quiet, scenic route, and as we walked, Stuart and Lisa began to pour out all they’d learned from their city. They rattled off names of connections they’d made, where they’d met them, when they last saw or interacted with them, and what each person thought about Jesus and Stuart and Lisa’s ministry here.

We walked past a coffee shop, and Stuart stopped and peered through the window. His face lit up when he saw his friend Ben, a barista there. He waved and made a goofy face at Ben, who smiled with recognition and waved back.

We rounded the corner and made a stop at a neighborhood bookstore. When we walked in, the two greeted the owner, Erin, by name, and she acknowledged them with a smile. I browsed briefly while the Bells conversed with Erin, talking about landmarks she suggested for my visit, their upcoming trip to China to meet their first grandchild, Erin’s husband Pete, etc. They introduced me, and she chatted with me kindly as a friend of her friends.

While Stuart met to read Scripture with a believer he met recently, Lisa and I stopped in a recommended coffee shop. As we walked in, Lisa called out to the girl behind the counter. Hearing her name, the girl looked up and smiled as Lisa introduced us.

We visited a Danish bakery a few blocks over for breakfast one morning, and the owner, a young woman named Isabelle, smiled when Lisa said hello and recognized her regular customer.

“Did you hear her call my name?” Lisa asked Stuart. “She remembered me.” Another advancement on the battleground. Another stake in the earth.

On our way to the bus stop Saturday morning, a man in a neon vest exited the CVS on the corner behind us, and Stuart called out.

“Nate! Hey, man!! How’s your morning been?”

Nate smiled broadly and shook Stuart’s outstretched hand. His vest was issued by the city as a uniform to wear when he patrolled his area on the corner of Mercer and Queen Anne. When Stuart complimented him and acknowledged the great work Nate was doing to keep the area clean, his head bowed slightly, a little bashful at the encouragement, but grateful to someone for noticing.

Turns out, noticing is something the Bells are great at.

Part III

There are ­­704,352 people in Seattle, WA.

And there are 2.5 coffee shops for every thousand of them. One of my requests when I arrived in the city was for the Bells to help me find a really great cup of coffee. We ended up finding several, but the first came from a quirky place a few blocks from their apartment: KEXP, which functions as a radio station, record store, music venue, and coffee shop.

As I sipped on my mocha in my first Seattle coffee shop experience, I had a chance to pull out my current read and spend a little time in *Middle Earth.

*I’d like to take this time to forewarn you that there may be several other references to LOTR in my future writings, because it’s wonderful and poignant and I make no apologies about my love for Tolkien’s writing.

I opened the page to where I’d last left Aragorn and his captains. In Tolkien’s The Return of the King, there is a moment right before the Last Battle that stopped me in my tracks. The armies of Rohan and Gondor have ridden right up to the Black Gate of Mordor with every ally they could muster riding alongside them. Before the monstrous barrier, the captains of each unit shouted forth their challenge and, after an eerie silence, an ambassador of the enemy came riding out to meet them.

As my eyes moved over this descriptive passage, I was struck by how Tolkien identified the foe.

“The Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-dûr he was, and his name is remembered in no tale; for he himself had forgotten it, and he said: ‘I am the Mouth of Sauron.’”

In his service and slavery to Sauron, he had forgotten his own name. His master, the enemy of all that was good and free and true, cared not even for a moment about his identity.

And I was suddenly aware of how true that rang across the pages of fiction into the realms of reality.

For we also have an enemy, a master liar and deceiver, adamantly opposed to all that is good and right and true. He fights to fill human hearts with lies about identity and worth.

“You’re not valuable.”

“You’re not noticed.”

“You’re not worth saving.”

“You’re not loved.”

“You’re alone.”

“No one knows your name.”

It’s all a trick. A lie disguised as truth designed to trap its victims in a pit of hopelessness and loneliness.

But here’s what’s true: Jesus knows every name.

He knows every name, and He values those to whom they belong. He loves each heart personally, deeply, intimately, fiercely. He died for every name and rose again so that every name might be freed from sin.

Individuals in the masses are not lost on Jesus. He sees everyone, and he calls people by name.

“As for me, this is my covenant with you: You will be the father of many nations. No longer will you be called Abram; your name will be Abraham, for I have made you a father of many nations.”

-Genesis 17:4-5

“Simon Peter answered, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.’ And Jesus said to him, ‘Blessed are you, Simon Barjona, because flesh and blood did not reveal this to you, but My Father who is in heaven. I also say to you that you are Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of Hades will not overpower it.’”

-Matthew 16:16-18

“He asked her, ‘Woman, why are you crying?’ Thinking he was the gardener, she said, ‘Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will get him.’ Jesus said to her, ‘Mary.’ She turned toward him and cried out in Aramaic, ‘Rabboni!’ (which means “Teacher”).”

-John 20:15-16

“Then Jesus shouted, ‘Lazarus, come out!’ The dead man came out, his hands and feet wrapped with strips of linen, and a cloth around his face. Jesus said to them, ‘Take off the grave clothes and let him go.’”

-John 11:43-44

Names are important to Jesus.

Part IV

There are ­­704,352 people in Seattle, WA.

Jesus knows every one of them. Personally. Intimately. He looks on each face with great compassion and love. He formed them. They are His creation, after all.

And one by one, He is introducing them to Stuart and Lisa.

They know the importance of names.

They understand the value in valuing someone else. They know what it means to be loved deeply by the One who gives worth and identity to His creation.

They are in Seattle, far from home and familiarity, because He called them there.

By name.

And every time the Bells call out to a new friend, every time they remember a hometown or a favorite coffee haunt, every time they lock eyes with hurting hearts and call them by name, a thread in the enemy’s cord of lies is severed.

“You are valuable.”

I notice you.”

“The Savior of the world came to rescue you.”

“You are loved.”

“You are not alone.”

I know your name.”

Jesus sees you and loves you.”

“The Creator of all the world knows you and calls you by name.”

Part V

There are ­­704,352 people in Seattle, WA and this Sunday, seven of them met in a conference room downtown for Stuart and Lisa’s very first worship service.

The Lord is not just calling Stuart and Lisa to plant a church, but to be the church. From the moment they heard the call, and every moment since, they have been all in. Every time they leave the house, they bow their heads at the door and ask the Lord to guide their steps and orchestrate their encounters and conversations. They pause in front of buildings with “For Lease” signs in the window and ask the Lord to open their eyes for plant locations. Out loud, without making a show or drawing attention to themselves, they speak to the Lord like He is standing with them, shoulder to shoulder in the crowd. And streams of people bustle past, moving unknowingly under the sound of intercession.

Intercession on their behalf.

Stuart and Lisa have a heart for downtown Seattle, but they know no calling can be answered without prayer. It is the foundation of their ministry. And they asked me to ask you for it.

If you’re reading this and would like to support the Bell’s ministry, please consider committing to pray for them faithfully and intentionally. If you feel led to give financially, you can do so by following this link >> http://nwbaptistplanting.com/give. Simply create an account, click “Make A Donation,” and select “Pike Place Church” to give.

The Lord is moving in downtown Seattle. He is calling hearts that are far from Him–calling them to draw near and be filled. And He is calling Stuart and Lisa and the believers who met in that conference room this Sunday, to be His hands and feet. To look on the faces of 704,352 people with the love and compassion of Jesus. To take the lost around them to the foot of the cross so they can find hope. So they can find peace. So they can find redemption.

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Hey, Nashville-I Just Called To Say I’m Sorry

In 2016, I spent a significant portion of my time fighting a love for my new home. I had arrived in January with a steel resolve to be brave in the face of all the new. I was happy to be at my job, but that was about it. Though Nashville did all it could to reach out and extend a welcoming hand, I flat refused to speak. I spent the whole first year of our relationship pining over my ex. No wonder we had issues.

I stepped into a new city still hopelessly and madly in love with Florence, AL. Nashville was a fine place for some folks to live, but it just wasn’t my type. It was merely a holding spot for me. A waiting room for me to park in while I waited for the Lord to tell me I could go home.

If you go anywhere, even paradise, you will miss your home.

-Malala Yousafzai

Home. Florence. One hundred and thirty-three miles southwest where all my people were.

I had no people in Nashville, and to be honest, I did a poor job of looking for them. I held my heart so far behind me that no one could come close. At best, I planted weedy roots that were violently ripped up once or twice a month when I pointed my car toward the Alabama state line and hit the gas. My mouth complained about my lack of ties to the city, but truthfully, my heart fiercely fought any connections. I didn’t want them, and somewhere deep inside my brain, I felt like I didn’t have room for them.

If I loved Florence with my whole heart, I had no more room for a new city to love. There wasn’t space for both.

But an affection for Tennessee was rising, quiet and strong and steady in the space beneath my chest.

I saw it first in April of last year. Green was coming back into the world again, arriving in brilliance after its hiatus. It sprung from the trees with all the energy of new hope and new life. My Cruze would come to the top of a hill on my way to work, and I’d catch a glimpse of rolling hills rising like a deep breath coming straight from the earth. And I would catch mine. In the cool stickiness of summer evenings, I watched the maple leaves from my patio flutter bashfully in the breeze. On Saturday hikes, the light would cut through the wall of trees so sharply I knew it was looking for my attention.

I stretched out on grassy lawns or scrunched in age-old pews and heard the city’s wild and brilliant heartbeat through guitar strings and voices loosed. I put my hand on the pulse of music that makes this city feel alive, like the soil beneath our feet is breathing the music from its own unseen lungs. Those of us who have to obey the laws of gravity get, for a brief moment, the chance to know what it feels like to defy it.

I’ve spent much of this new year trying to quietly apologize to Nashville. And Nashville, in all her generosity, is forgiving. Through all my foot stamping and tantrum tears last year, she never stopped singing. She never let her voice get too small for me to hear. And I’m grateful for another year to hear it and another chance to really listen.

You can have more than one home. You can carry your roots with you, and decide where they grow.

-Henning Mankell

There’s room for both, I’ve learned. There’s love enough for more than one piece of geography.

And I need them both, Florence & Nashville. I need every mile.

Florence is home. Safe. Still so very needed. Always will be. When I cross the city lines, it refills my tank with courage. Tells me with its slow drawl that it’s glad to see me. Tells me it’ll be here waiting when I come again.

Nashville is growth. Smothering with its enormity. Terrifying. Luminous. Gleaming. So welcoming and warm. It pushes me to be brave. Demands more of me than I thought I could give. Asks me to climb to new heights, but promises a great view. And it delivers.

There are a thousand ways to go home.

-Rumi

So, Nashville, I just called to tell you I’m sorry. I’m glad to be here. I’m glad you welcomed me and gave me a new place to call home. I’m glad you didn’t give up on me.

And Nashville—the view really is amazing.