I turned 45 yesterday. My birthday was supposed to arrive when I was somewhere high over the Atlantic, perhaps just off the coast of Namibia, at the front end of a monster 16-hour homeward flight. I should have long since fallen asleep, and not known exactly where I was when the clock struck midnight, nor even what time zone it might have been. I suppose it’s possible that I would have turned 45 a few times while flying briskly from east to west, from South Africa to North America.
But as it happened, I turned 45 in my own home and my own bed. There was an alternate version of my week where I had traveled to South Africa, then Zambia, then Zimbabwe to do a little preaching, to visit some ministries, and to be part of a conference. I went to bed Thursday night thinking all this would happen. I had even checked in to my flights and gone off to get the negative COVID test that would allow me to enter those countries. But when I awoke on Friday morning I quickly realized that none of it would happen, all thanks to the appearance of
To continue...read the full-length post originally published on this site.
