Let The Seed Fall

It was a torrid West African afternoon and the ceiling fan in Pastor Love's reception room was doing nothing to move the thinck air. I sat on a low maroon velveteen sofa and waited for him to finish his conversaton with a church leader. Pastor Love and I had not officially met, although we had corresponded through e-mail and on social networking sites. Now I was back in Africa once more at his invitation, but this was new territory. I'd never been to his country before. I was looking forward to meeting his church flock and sharing in fellowship with them. My thoughts drifted back to other waiting rooms in other places far away. Three decades before, I'd waited outside a psychiatrist's office for the first time and wondered what was in store. I'd had no idea then that such viists would continue for well over thirty years, or that I'd see over fifty therapists in twenty cities on two continents. My mind took me to another waiting day, five years after that first viist to a pscyiatrist. It was the day that changed my life forever.