England, wildness, and Him.
Each morning I zip myself out of my caterpillar tent, set my flip flops down in wet grass, and look up at a pale blue sky hidden almost entirely by towers of clouds – gray and white. It’s muddy. It’s wet. It’s lush.
And I am really and truly here.
At nine years old, I remember standing – hands clenched with anticipation at my sides – staring up at the jet planes that traced their lines across the sky over my little yard in Tacoma, Washington.
I ached for adventure – wild and big and risky and important.
Sixteen years later I’m camping in England – with visits to Greece, Germany, China, Taiwan, India, and The Maldives under my belt – and I am still longing for the very same thing.
I still ache.
More than ever, in fact.
But the object of my yearning has clarified. I could set foot on the Southernmost tip of Africa, the highest peak of the Himalayas, or the remotest ice-cliff of the North Pole… but the spark that ignites me to blaze — to really be and feel ALIVE in the wildest and truest way — isn’t found in the traveling or the accomplishing or the achieving or the doing.
My one wild and remarkable adventure is Him.
It’s the daily discovery of the unrelenting, magnificently tender love of Jesus Christ.
He is real-er than real.
And I can feel His intimate tug at my heart — in the deepest and most secret parts — wooing me into the singular Adventure wild and spectacular enough to satisfy me.
It’s a love story.
It’s an epic.
It’s a grand and remarkable fairy tale.
It’s everything but a tragedy.
Whether I’m standing under an English sky, a Hawaiian palm tree, or an Indian city-scape, His love really is my most thrilling adventure.