Beads and Baskets

The airline seat was cramped. I stretched and shifted my big frame restlessly—no, let’s be honest, nervously.

I looked across my row out one of the small, oval-shaped windows. Green to the horizon, a blurry expanse of trees and grassland. That’s where we were going, four friends and I, to Uganda, Africa, on this, my very first mission trip ever.

Actually, this was my first international flight, first time using a passport. That wasn’t the only reason I was nervous. My buddies, Jeff, John, Chris, Dan, and I were prepared. We had raised enough money, arranged for places to stay and plotted our route. We planned to spend half of our time in Kampala, the Ugandan capital, where we would visit an orphanage sponsored by my church and meet a girl, Betty, my wife, Shauna, and I sponsored.

The rest of the trip we’d spend in Jinja, a smaller city about 50 miles away, where a pastor my wife and I had long supported ran a school. We had prayed. We had each other’s backs.

And yet, watching the Ugandan landscape near as the plane descended, I was gripped by a single terrifying thought: What on earth am I doing here?

I couldn’t afford this trip. Not the money, not the time. When I gave in to the guys’ prodding—“But Brett, the church travel agent says we could wait ages before flights get this cheap again!”—I had been out of work for more than a year. I’d lost the restaurant regional-manager job I’d been counting on to put my son and daughter through college and to keep Shauna and me in the nice house, nice cars and nice clothes we’d gotten used to. I’d tried another management job with a fast-food franchise. But I’d left after a few months. It just didn’t feel like the right fit for me.

Nothing felt right, and I couldn’t figure out why. Ever since I was in fifth grade and my dad walked out on our family, I’d vowed never to rely on anyone but myself. I’d worked hard and reaped the rewards. I was a good provider. So what if I hated the work? The restaurant business paid well, and that’s what was important to me. But what a dismal grind it had become. Whatever passion I’d once had was long gone.

I yearned for something deeper, more fulfilling. Don’t be a fool, I reprimanded myself. While I dithered, bills piled up. What was I supposed to say to Delanie, our eight-year-old, and Weston, our six-year-old? Sorry, kids, Dad’s having a midlife crisis, so no toys this year.

Already we’d moved to a smaller house, downgraded to a used car, cut out restaurant meals—how weird, me, the restaurant guy, not eating out!—eliminated shopping sprees. Still, the bank balance plummeted. I felt paralyzed. Afraid. Lost.