I was Babe Ruth calling his shot and stepping into the swing to smash it over the fence. I had 25,000 words of notes on the Flying Solo project and was beginning to set up interviews with dozens of single men in ministry to supplement my research. But—forget curveballs—sometimes that snarling man on the mound hurls a knuckleball.
That first pitch came late in May when our church lost its lease. From one week to another, we had to move everything to a new part of town. Endless details demanded immediate attention. My personal routine unraveled, and habits such as writing began to suffer.
The next pitch was a blistering cutter that came in early June. The son of some dear church friends suffered a horrible accident at school. As they attended to Jorgie, the rest of the leadership team has tried to take on their roles.
It’s useless to complain about the pitches. Trying to maintain rigid control just causes stress. It’s good to have goals, but if my 37 brutish years have taught me anything, it’s that sometimes I just have to adjust my swing.
Flying Solo has been temporarily shelved until we get church happening again. Not to worry, though—I’ve already invested too much work and thought in the project to let it go to waste.
It looks like I’ll just have to bunt this inning.
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