There's No Place Like Home

Sometimes the journey home is longer and more painful than you ever imagined. But home is still there, waiting.

The Morning

I was fifteen when I woke up to see my grandma—Nene—at my house. She wasn't supposed to be there. Not that early. Not unannounced.

Something was in the air that morning. A slight eerie dread. The kind you feel before you know why you feel it.

That's when we got the call.

Brian is at the hospital.

A million questions ran through my head. But deep down, I knew. I knew my dad was most likely gone.

The Hospital

When we got to the hospital, my dad lay there in a coma. The doctors explained what we now know was an overdose death due to asphyxiation. But the public relations side of my mom came out. We settled on "heart attack" or "heart failure" for everyone else. Easier to explain. Easier to accept.

After a week of praying to God—asking why, begging for answers—I was at a loss. Family members came and went. The hospital room filled with prayers and tears and silence.

Then the doctor approached my mom.

"If we are going to harvest the organs, we need to do so soon."

All because he had checked "donate organs" on his driver's license.

I made a decision right then and there. When I get a driver's license, I will not check that box. And I won't let anyone else in my family check that box either.

I couldn't go through this again.

Lost

After my dad died, my sense of direction was lost. I lost my guide in life. The person who was supposed to show me how to be a man, how to navigate the world, how to make decisions—gone.

I dropped out of college. Moved to South Carolina. Ran from everything that reminded me of home.

Until…

The Dream

My mom called me one day out of the blue.

"Is everything okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said, confused. "Why?"

"I had a dream that someone in my life was in a huge accident."

I brushed it off. Just a dream. Nothing to worry about.

The Wreck

My step-dad and grandpa were in a wreck.

I received a call from my mom saying that John Abbott, my step-dad, had been in an accident. Shortly after, my sister sent me a bunch of gruesome pictures of him in the hospital. I couldn't even stomach looking at them. I deleted them off my phone immediately.

As my heart sank, I called my mom and asked for the details.

John had taken my grandpa, Mark, up in an old World War II plane for Father's Day. A gift. A memory. An experience they'd never forget.

They got more than they bargained for.

Neither of them remember much of the crash. But they tried to piece together the details they did remember. The wings that hold the fuel had been ripped off by the trees. One wing had been caught on a telephone wire, dramatically slowing the aircraft down just enough to keep them alive.

They stumbled out of the aircraft as quickly as they could—trying not to be burned alive in a gulf of flames. John was coughing up blood. They were rushed to the hospital.

Airway, Airway, Airway

After one night in the hospital, John was throwing up through his wired-shut mouth. A doctor or nurse was reading off his vitals, not realizing the danger.

That's when John's dad—previously an EMT—started yelling: "Airway! Airway! Airway!"

He rolled John to his side to prevent…

Asphyxiation.

The same way my dad died.

In a playfully serious manner, we sometimes make the joke to my mom: "The men you marry aren't safe."

But it's not really a joke. It's trauma wrapped in humor because we don't know how else to process it.

Coming Home

After that, I moved back to Missouri. I got a job at Chipotle. I started attending Freshwater Life Group with a buddy of mine, Josh Herrick.

That's where I met Mitch Canote, the media director for Freshwater. One day, he invited me to Mod Pizza to discuss an internship for the Missouri Baptist Convention.

We sat there eating pizza, and I shared my passion with him. How interested I was in music, audio, technology. How much I loved using media to serve people and advance the Gospel.

He basically said, "You got it."

I filled out some paperwork. Gave my testimony. And just like that, I was off to FILO—an audio and video conference called First In Last Out—as an intern for the Missouri Baptist Convention.

My new home.

I was confused. Was it this simple? After all the loss, all the trauma, all the running away—was it really this easy to find my way back?

It really was as easy as clicking my heels.

There's No Place Like Home

Dorothy was right. There's no place like home.

But sometimes you have to go through the tornado. You have to walk the yellow brick road. You have to face the witches and the flying monkeys and the Wizard who turns out to be just a man behind a curtain.

Sometimes you have to lose your dad at fifteen. Watch your step-dad nearly die the same way. Drop out of college. Move to another state. Work at Chipotle. Feel completely lost and directionless.

And then one day, someone invites you to Mod Pizza and says, "You got it."

And you realize home was there all along. You just had to find your way back.

The Missouri Baptist Convention became my home. Not because it was a building or a job or an organization. But because it was where God called me. Where my gifts were recognized. Where my passion found purpose. Where I discovered that even after all the loss and trauma, there was still a place for me. Jefferson City has some of the best community churches in Central Missouri, and that faith community has been foundational to my journey.

I think about my dad sometimes. About the driver's license. About the organs. About the choice I made to never check that box.

I think about my step-dad. About the plane crash. About the word "airway" screamed three times by someone who knew exactly what was at stake.

I think about my mom's dream. A warning from God that we didn't fully understand until it was too late to prevent but just in time to survive.

And I think about home. About how sometimes the longest journey is the one that brings you back to where you started. About how God uses loss and pain and trauma to shape us into who we're meant to be.

There's no place like home. But the journey to get there? That's where you find out who you really are.

And sometimes, it really is as easy as clicking your heels. You just have to be ready to walk the road first.