I once told a friend I wanted to be a travel writer.
This is ridiculous for three reasons. One: I hate to travel. I love nothing more than sitting on my Target lounge chair on the back patio with a good book and a glass of Chardonnay while the cicadas buzz into the humid night. That, to me, is the epitome of perfection – and I don’t have to travel to Tahiti or the Riviera or the Maldives to find it.
Two: I am a textbook hypochondriac with severe vomit phobia and have ruled out traveling to entire continents – namely Africa, South America and India – because I am afraid of succumbing to food poisoning or a rare tropical virus.
And three: I hate to fly. My feet sweat and I position the overhead blower toward my face and breathe in the germ-infested recirculated air and hum Silent Night to myself to keep calm. Meanwhile my kids ask repeatedly, “Mommy, why are you humming?” and I shush them as I hand out multiple packets of M&Ms.
So you can see how travel writing perhaps isn’t a good fit for me, unless, of course I was to write about the Black Hills or Branson, Missouri.
What’s interesting, though, is that I did grow up to become a travel writer of sorts – just not the kind I expected. And it turns out, this journey into faith has been a trip like no other.
How have your childhood dreams materialized in real life? Has your original vision changed along the way?
