I wrote this three years ago, but it seems appropriate to repost it today. It’s Anabel’s 10th Birthday. Time goes so quickly.

———-

August had been miserable in Columbia, Maryland. Hot and humid are even more difficult to deal with when you’re dirt poor and living in a 1,000 square foot apartment. September wasn’t much better. Indian summer stretched through the month, and our electric bill (from running the a/c) went through the roof. My wife was a trooper through her first pregnancy. Didn’t complain much until right at the end. Then she decided, “I’ve made it this far. From now on I’m getting what I want.” It was 90 degrees outside and about 60 in our apartment. There could have been a thunderstorm in our doorway!

Making the month especially…interesting: my mother had come out for the birth of her first grandchild. She was helping…sort of.

My father juggled his schedule so he could fly out the day after Jill’s due date. He spent an entire week twiddling his thumbs, reading all my books and jumping every time Jill sneezed. Eventually, she started hiding in the back bedroom. She just got tired of being stared at. Then he left disappointed — no baby.

One Sunday morning we were driving home after church, and my mother ordered me to stop at a produce stand. She bought peppers of every variety and turned them into the hottest salsa she’s ever made. Some old wives’ tale. We ate salsa until we cried. We went for walks. We did all the things grandmas say will make the baby come out.

No baby.

We blew past the due date. Then we lapped it. Finally, our doctor told us to schedule a time to come in and be induced. We were told to come in late at night. That way we could sleep while they were setting everything up, wake up the next morning (well-rested) and have us a baby.

So, after our Tuesday night Bible study we watched Emeril, packed our bags, waved goodbye to my mother, stopped at the grocery store for snacks and headed to the hospital. On the way there, Jill had indigestion or Braxton-Hicks contractions or something. The funny thing is, they were 14 minutes apart.

It wasn’t until we were sitting in the waiting room filling out forms that I realized she was in labor. There would be no sleep that night — or the next.

The best things in life make you wait for what seems like an eternity. You get all excited, mark the date on the calendar in red and then wait while the days crawl by. You go about your regular activities, but they don’t seem to have as much meaning.

In fact, as I look back, I don’t remember anything substantial happening — even though I was serving a church and continued my teaching schedule. I know I must have spent time studying and meeting with people. But I can’t remember any of that.

The only thing I remember was waking up every day wondering, “Will it be today?” I remember every time my cell phone went off during those 10 overdue days: “Is it time?”

Every day was filled with hope and expectation and disappointment and more hope. We knew it wouldn’t be long, and even though it was longer than we expected, we never lost hope. Not even after hours and hours of more nothing as we sat in the hospital waiting…and waiting…and waiting.

She ran out of water in there. Lingered and swam and rolled over until there was nothing left in there but her. And she still wouldn’t come out.The doctor told us it would be soon. They lied. Jill struggled and suffered and waited too long for the really good pain stuff. I tried my best to keep her distracted, playing Yo-Yo Ma cello music softly in the background, reminding Jill to breathe and cracking inappropriate jokes at appropriate times.

We laughed a lot and kept the doctors generally confused.

But that baby wouldn’t budge.

Then, after what seemed like an eternity, everyone got in a big hurry. Her heartbeat was growing faint. The doctor looked scared, and I readied myself for the possibility that I might not get to see her after all.

I was asked to sign some forms. The doctors were trying to explain to me how any surgery is dangerous, and you never know what’s going to happen and they’ve done this a million times but there’s always a chance…. That’s when it dawned on me. Through the sleepless fog came the idea: I arrived at this hospital expecting to leave with one new member of my family; I might actually leave with one fewer.

Suddenly we were whisked upstairs into an operating room. I had scrubs on, and they were cutting Jill wide open — going in after our little girl who will forever be remembered by the scar she made on her way out. She still prefers to do things in her own sweet time.

I remember holding her for the first time. I didn’t have words. Sometimes I still don’t. She had that big ridge on her head from where she was stuck. Bobby McFerrin’s song “Common Threads” was playing in my head. For some reason I sang to her: “Jesus loves me.” That’s probably the most primal song I know — the simplest tune, most basic memory lodged deep down in my brain. At the bottom of everything else I’ve ever learned, when I had nothing else, I had: “Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to Him belong. They are weak but He is strong.”

I introduced her to her mother. Jill said, “I think I’m going to throw up.” I said, “Turn your head the other way so you don’t throw up on our new baby.” The doctor said, “Hey, John, you wanna see your wife’s ovaries?”

I’ve seen parts of Jill she hasn’t seen.

It all seems like a far away memory of a dream now. Everything was slow and fast all at the same time. We had no idea what we were in for. You blink, and she’s seven. Going to school. Riding her bike. Having a slumber party. And you know: we’re more than halfway to being a teenager now.

It still goes slow and fast at the same time. And I find myself begging God to slow down time so I can catch up. But it’s no use. Time moves at its own steady and relentless pace. And we stride towards the inevitable day when we will launch Anabel out into the wide world.

There’s a part of me that gets excited about that idea.

There’s another part of me that’s just glad that for today she’s still only seven.

Two weeks and 3,350 miles after it began, The Turner’s Great American Roadtrip ended as we pulled into my parents’ driveway in McDonough, GA. It has been said that we ate our way across this great country of ours. It has even been suggested that should I ever stop being a pastor, I could conduct travel tours of the great dining establishments found along the southern portion of the US.

From the outrageously good burger at Joe’s Farm Grill just outside of Phoenix to the stuffed sopapilla in Flagstaff to the green chile stew at the Blue Corn Cafe in Santa Fe to the steaks at the Big Texan in Amarillo to the cheese enchiladas and margaritas at Joe T. Garcia’s in Fort Worth to the crawfish etouffee and alligator bites at the Cyprus Inn in Monroe to the Eggs Shannon and Bananas Foster at Brennan’s in New Orleans to the crab cakes at Crab’s in Pensacola — it was quite a culinary adventure.

And along the way — this is the best part — there were people who we love. Old friends and new friends who were extraordinarily hospitable and overwhelmingly generous. The Leeses bought us dinner at Disneyland. Jill’s family went with us to Joe’s Farm Grill, where we all ordered up and split our entrees with one another. The Powells opened their home to us, grilling steaks and inviting the Stowers and Deloaches over — even asking me to preach for their church. The Hughes family cooked southern fried chicken and green beans for us and let our kids run off some of the energy they’d accumulated. Christopher Green met us at the Dallas Farmers Market and bought us good, cheap Mexican grub. John and Maggie Dobbs (and the amazing wiener dog, Jackson — aka “Oscar Gorge”) took to our girls like few people have and allowed me to teach a Wednesday night class in the building where I went to elementary school. Denny and Philis Boultinghouse along with Johnny Howard and Leonard Allen treated us to lunch at Copeland’s as we talked about the rapidly-changing landscape of the publishing industry — especially as it has to do with my next book for Howard Publishing. Rick Hazelip and the folks at First City Church in Pensacola asked me to preach for them and allowed us to stay in a condo on the beach for next to nothing.

Jill and I constantly found ourselves wondering, gazing out the minivan windows as the terrain shifted from the rocky pacific coast of California to the painted deserts of Arizona to the badlands of New Mexico to the high plains of the Texas panhandle to the hill country of central Texas to the bayous of Louisiana to the white sandy beaches of the Gulf Coast — each beautiful in its own unique way — how in the world we’ve managed to collect so many wonderful friends in so many wonderful places.

All we can think of is God has been preparing us for a trip like this for a very long time. Knowing how vulnerable to disappointment and bitterness we would be at such a time as this, he made certain we could find the encouragement we so desperately needed.

Two weeks later, we find ourselves back in Atlanta, strangely less weary than when we’d first begun and greatly cheered by our travels, our hearts full to overflowing with gratitude for all those who helped, eager to discover what God has in store for us next.

It took us forever to get out of Atlanta. We slept too late. I had to go get new glasses (long story). We still have a million little odds and ends to get packed.

And we had to take our cable modem back to the cable office — which is impossible to find.

So, on the first day of our road trip, we barely made it to Tuscaloosa. Not the prettiest place in the southeast. The girls were fussy. Coco the dog needed tranquilizers or something — he was freaked out. Jill and I were snippy at each other. We were not off to a good start.

The second day started the way the first day left off. We were all groggy and fussy and in a pretty bad mood. Coco eventually settled down, but the girls were engaged in the classic struggle over the middle of the backseat. That seems to be one of those things you don’t have to teach kids to do; fighting over where to draw the invisible line that separates “your area” from “my area” must be part of our sin nature.

We took away every privilege we could think of, and, when that didn’t work, we may or may not have threated to leave one of them at a gas station in Meridian, Mississippi. Not our finest hour as parents!

But we got to Jackson and stopped at a Cracker Barrel for lunch. After having a “little chat” with our darling children, I stumbled upon the single most important discovery of our trip thus far: Cracker Barrel lets you rent books on CD — children’s books — unabridged children’s books.

For the next five-and-a-half hours we rode in blissful, fight-free silence listening to Eden Riegel read Ella Enchanted. Not only is this a fantastic children’s story (with an even better message for those parents who want nothing more than to “make their children be obedient”), but it allowed us to make great progress.

We stopped only so I could attend a conference call with my agent, my co-author and some of the folks marketing The 52 Greatest Stories of the Bible. By the way, things are really starting to gear up on that front, and you’ll be hearing more about that in the next few days.

By nightfall, we had made it to Tyler, Texas — right at 500 miles and three state lines. We crossed the Mighty Mississippi and rolled through the Sportsman’s Paradise into the Great State of Texas. We’d seen more trees and variations of the color green than we ever thought possible. We ate good Tex-Mex and swam in the pool. It was a full day.

Day Three got a leisurely start. I wanted to get to Dallas by lunch to meet up with my good pal Tim Spivey. Tim’s all set to be the next Sr. Minister at North County Church of Christ in Escondido, CA. The movers were at his house the day we had lunch at a terrible all you can eat pizza place in not-so-beautiful Balch Springs, TX. We ate and chatted, and my girls were still on their pretty good behavior.

Then we put our head down and drove all the way to Midland, TX. The trees pretty much stop after Fort Worth, and the landscape flattens out considerably. Then you hit the Hill Country, but things go from that deep green of the south to a more khaki green and tan. After seeing so many cows that day (my kids especially liked the look of longhorns), we thought steak must be on the menu. The Cheetah Girls movie was on, so that kept us out of the pool, but it was mercifully short. All of my girls fell asleep watching Olympic Volleyball.

Day Four was our longest day. Jill really wanted lunch in El Paso, so we hit the road and kept going until we got there. It was a late lunch, but boy-o-boy was it good! The speed limit is 80 most of the way, so we really started piling up the miles, and we crossed two time zones which helped. That gave us a 26-hour day to work with.

We saw the hilll country flatten out completely. Then we saw our first cactus. Then we saw the red clay give way to sand and dust. Surprisingly, we got slammed with rain for about 15 minutes, and the temperature dropped to 67 degrees in New Mexico. We listened to Stockard Channing read Ramona and Her Mother by Beverly Cleary. For those of you who may not remember, Ramona was the Junie B. Jones of the late-70s and early 80s. The girls really liked it.

I’m not sure what exactly got into us, but we drove all the way to Tucson. We got there late, and we were all tired and hungry and griping. Our hotel was not very nice. Our dinner was even worse. But the beautiful thing was knowing that the next day would be a short one.

We have family in Phoenix. So, we got up and drove a couple of hours. We checked into our hotel early. We ate In-N-Out Burgers. We swam in the pool. We played with cousins and an aunt and uncle and a grandma. We liked it so much we decided to stay here an extra day.

By the way, do people live in Phoenix on purpose? I just can’t imagine it. It was 107 degrees yesterday. Last night, as we left our dinner party and headed back to our hotel, it had cooled down…to 95. It was 95 degrees last night at 10:30! It’s not like this was surprising. It’s not like this is some kind of fluke. This isn’t a one-time anomaly. It’s this hot all the time. And people live in that kind of weather intentionally. Not only that, but they talk about it like it’s the greatest thing ever.

“Can you believe how hot it is?”

“Yeah, isn’t it great? But it’s a dry heat!”

“So is a brick oven!”

Seriously, I’m pretty sure the surface of the sun isn’t very damp. But no one wants to live there. I find myself constantly wondering about the interior temperature of the van and whether there may be something in there with a flash point of, say, around 300 degrees — which is probably how hot it is in there. I’m afraid to touch any flat surface outside because I’m sure my skin will actually stick to it.

Tomorrow we’ll head to the Grand Canyon and maybe Lake Havasu — which I hear actually gets about five or six degrees warmer than Phoenix. Really?! It gets warmer than Phoenix? What I really want to know now is how there is still water in Lake Havasu if it’s that hot? Why hasn’t it all evaporated?

Greetings from Phoenix, everyone! Land of hot. Land of sun and sand and cactus and family and In-N-Out burgers.

Did I mention it’s hot here?

I can remember, when I was a kid, my grandparents lived in Atlanta, and I lived in West Monroe, Louisiana. Coming to Atlanta was like coming into the City of Oz — giant buildings glimmering in the sunlight. We had to drive past Six Flags to get there, and that only added to the fun and anticipation of what might lie ahead. We’d see that golden dome of the Capital Building. We’d eat at The Varsity. It was so not West Monroe.

And I loved it here.

Of course, we were always coming to visit around holiday seasons, so that sense of wonder was always hanging in the air. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Fourth of July. There would be food and fireworks. Georgia football. Or Braves games.

Man, I remember going out to the old Fulton County Stadium and sitting in the bleacher seats to cheer on a team that was just terrible. But I didn’t care. It was part of being a little boy in a big city.

And I dreamed of one day living here.

Then when I was in fourth grade we moved to California — the opposite side of the world. I remember going to Dodger games when the Braves were in town. I felt like that guy in the old School House Rock cartoon: “Hooray! I’m for the other team!”

Oddly enough, my family eventually moved to Atlanta — Stone Mountain to be precise. We moved at the beginning of summer in between my freshman and sophomore years in high school.

And I hated it here.

It rained all the time — seems odd to say that given the past few years of drought, but the summer of 1985 was wet here in the south. I’d absorbed enough west coast snobbery to really live with a chip on my shoulder out here. I wasn’t very pleasant to be around, and I let people know at every opportunity that I was only here because my parents wanted to move here.

The first chance I got (high school graduation), I drove straight to the Pacific Ocean and lived there — Malibu to be precise. But life is funny sometimes. I married a woman who wanted to work at the Olympics more than anything else she could think of. So, in 1994 we moved right back here to Atlanta.

We’ve left a couple of times in the 14 years since then, but we always seem drawn back here — the last time was nearly six years ago. Maybe it’s the charm of the new south. Maybe it’s the climate. Maybe the affordable housing. Maybe the Braves.

It’s probably the people.

We have more friends here than I could name. Dane & Christy. Steven & Angelique. David & Pam. Michael & Dawn. Danny & Tammy. Bob & Jenn. Chuck & Laura. Hal & Jenny. Phil & Holly. Yuriy & Nadia. Jeff & Elizabeth. Ken. Mark. Greg. Leigha.

I could go on and on.

We’ve been to weddings and baby showers and funerals. Late night hospital trips. Emergency rooms. After church lunches. Small group dinners. Cookouts. Movies. Concerts. Midnight phone calls. Back porch conversations about marriage and kids and dreams and fears and hurts and love.

We’ve done life together.

A couple of years ago I said that God himself would have to show up and pry us out of Atlanta. Who knew he’d actually take us up on that offer? That is precisely what we feel has happened. God is calling us to this new venture back in southern California. Being the type of people who long ago determined to respond to such promptings, we are eager to obey. But we are so, so incredibly sad to go. I cannot remember feeling such a complex swirl of emotions as I feel tonight.

In a matter of hours, I’ll say goodbye to this beautiful city where so much of who I am was forged. Where so much of what I know was learned. Where so much of my heart will stay. Sometime tomorrow — perhaps as you are reading this — I’ll drive past the golden buildings shimmering in the summer sun. I’ll drive out past Six Flags, and I’ll look back at Atlanta in the rearview mirror.

And I will miss it here so much.

Farewell, Atlanta. And farewell all you fair Atlantans who have meant so much to us over the years. We love you more than we can say. And we will most likely be back sometime.

It’s hot and dry and dusty there in the summertime. It feels like someone’s following you around with a hair dryer blowing in your face all the time. The nearest Italian restaurant was more than an hour away from our house — if you don’t count Pizza Hut — which you shouldn’t.

It’s also flat. My standard joke is that Amarillo is so flat that on a clear day you can see the back of your own head. The golf course I played there was called “Hidden Hills”. And if by “hidden” one means “non-existent” then it was an aptly-named course.

There are some nice people. We made some friends there. There are also some of the meanest people I ever encountered. We got hate mail from church people.

It was the hardest time of our lives. It was some of the most profitable in terms of lessons learned. It almost made me leave church altogether. But it drove me closer to God than I ever was before.

And it solidified my marriage like nothing else ever has.

But, without a single doubt, the best thing about Amarillo, Texas is that seven years ago this morning we were given the gift from God that is Eliza Faith Turner.

According to Vision 360’s California office, Ventura and Santa Barbara Counties (which are just to the northwest of Los Angeles) are home to approximately 1.2 million people. Roughly 14% of those people attend a Christian church of any kind on any given weekend (7% Catholic, 6% Evangelical, 1% Mainline Protestant). In the past decade, that number has decreased by 2.5%.

Think of it: More than a million unchurched people in those two counties alone.

Nearly 500,000 of those people live in the Ventura/Oxnard Metropolitan area. This area currently has 130 Evangelical churches.

By way of comparison, Davidson County (Nashville, TN) has a population of just over 600,000. There are more than 750 churches there. Forsyth County (where I currently live) has a population of right around 150,000. There are 37 Baptist churches here.

Statistically speaking, the best way to reach unchurched people is through new church plants. On average, a church that is older than 10 years can expect one new convert per year for every 89 members. A church that is between 3 and 7 years old averages one new convert for every 7 members. A church that is under 3 years old averages one new convert for every 3 members.

It is for these reasons (and several others) that I will be flying to California this weekend where I will announce the plan for my family to move to Ventura County this summer and join the launch team of River Park Community Church.

We are excited. We are nervous. We are terrified. We have no idea how we will survive financially. This makes very little sense…unless there really is a God who is bigger than all of our obstacles and fears.

Now, more than ever, my family needs your prayers, your friendship and your financial support. Please, prayerfully consider giving money to support this new work in such a vitally important region of our world.

I will keep you informed.

After a long and very emotionally draining week, my wife and I have returned home. We’re glad to see the girls, glad to see the dog, glad to sleep in our own bed.

Thanks to all of you who provided support through your prayers, condolences and other help. We’re hoping to get back to something like normal next week.

I just sent this email out, but in case you’re not on the list or it gets blocked or whatever:

Friends, 

This morning, just after 10:00am Pacific Time, Jill’s father — Harold Dean Foley — passed away. As many of you know, Jill has spent a lot of time in California tending to him over the past 18 months. We are glad she had the opportunity to have a couple of weeks with him recently, when he was lucid and communicative. We are also glad that we were able to fly here yesterday. She was with him, at his bedside, this morning when he died.

Thank all of you who have made it possible for her to spend so much time dealing with this. You have watched our children, walked our dog, driven us to and from the airport, assisted us financially, emotionally and spiritually. We are truly blessed to have such a wonderful support network as you.

At this point in time, we’re unsure of what the next few days will hold. He did not want any sort of memorial service. We will be out here until his affairs have been settled.

“I have a dream today. I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together. This is our hope. This is the faith with which I return to the South. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope.”

– Martin Luther King, Jr.

There is power in a dream, especially when that dream is in sync with God’s dream. God longs for justice and redemption, and tells us that one day all the things that are wrong about our world will be set right. Dr. King’s dream was powerful enough to lead people to sit in, stand up, march on, take notice and suffer abuse for the sake of preventing further abuse. He inspired leaders, recruited followers and demanded legislative reform. This preacher man on a plumber’s salary moved people, black and white, because he could envision what was true, good and beautiful, and he refused to give up. He said that justice would one day roll down like waters, and righteousness like a mighty stream. By his absolute refusal to be silenced, he forced America to deal with the error, the evil and the ugliness of racism.

Martin Luther King, Jr. was a hope-filled and inspirational leader. He was also a dad. While he was in Washington, proclaiming his dream that his children would “one day live in a nation where they [would] not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character,” his wife Coretta was caring for his four children, the youngest of whom turned five months old that day.

King left a legacy of hope…for our nation and for his own family.

What kind of legacy would you like to leave for your family? What are you willing to do to ensure that legacy?

It was four years ago today.

I remember where I was standing when Jill first told me about her. It was a Sunday morning, and we were at North Point Community Church. I was watching a baby crawl across the floor, and Jill asked, “Are you ready to have another one of those?”

My first response was to laugh. Eliza wasn’t even out of diapers yet. We’d just come through a great scare with her, and I was questioning our ability to handle two little girls. The idea of having a third was…well…laughable.

Fortunately, I did not laugh. In fact, Jill says it’s one of the only times she’s ever seen me speechless. It took a full 10 count before it occurred to me what exactly she was trying to communicate to me. I’m not normally that slow on the uptake.

But this was so far beyond anything I was thinking about.

We were poor. I’d quit a job to pursue something. It was slow to develop. I had the rug yanked out from under me. I was confused and frustrated, hurt and angry. If it hadn’t been for Ken Boa we never would have survived.

We chose the name Amelia. It means “industrious”. Amelia Hope. We work with a sense of great expectation. She’s been work, that’s for sure. But we have a strong belief that God has big plans for this little one.

She showed up a little early — while Jill’s regular doctor was away on vacation. We had to use a different hospital from the one we’d toured. We had to use a different doctor from the one we’d come to know and trust. I was supposed to spend the weekend writing a script for KidStuf. I had to call my friend Bill Winegardner and hand it off to him. He wrote a classic, by the way. We called some friends, and we called my parents.

I think Steven and Angelique Allen took the two big girls. It all happened quickly. It’s kind of a blur. Chuck and Laura Thon showed up right after she got there. Hal and Jenny Runkel came the next day. So did Dane and Christy Booth.

She didn’t make a big deal out of her arrival. Unlike her sisters, there was little struggle. She’s always been her own person and does things in her own way.

She’s full of surprises. She makes me laugh, and I find myself doing anything I can think of to return the favor.

It’s hard to believe she’s four. And I cannot wait to see how this turns out.