For as long as I can remember, I’ve taken the time to suit up and swim out. To gather my things. Pen and paper. Laptop or journal. To set my sight on a horizon deep. And paddle out. Bouncing in the ebb and flow of a tide sweeping to shore.

But in the pursuing there is a pushing. A fighting back. A resistance. A defiance of this horizontal gravity. Tearing through these small walls of water.

And once it’s over, once I’m past the pull, I sit there. And look to where I’ve come from. Seeing the shore now both again and anew. Perspective shifted. Imagination + insight stirred.

And then I wait. I wait for the wave. Wait for the wild explosion of kinetic energy and creative spark. I put myself in this still place to be swept somewhere beyond. A wave of wonder. A touch of truth.

In the written word and the preached word. Songwriting and storytelling.

Pastor. Preacher.
Journalist. Journeyman.
Reconciler. Writer.

In and through it all, the words have always come in waves.

And when they do, my job has simply been to ride them in. And write them down. Framing words as faithfully as the formed waves themselves.