If I were to guess, I am at about 37,000 feet, halfway back from Okinawa to Tokyo. This morning I boarded a ferry by myself, leaving a team I had grown to love behind on an island off of Okinawa in order to get back to Atlanta by Sunday.

The ferry we took to over to the island was slow. The trip took an hour and 45 minutes. But at least the day was nice; a good day to be out at sea. The ferry I took this morning was fast: same trip took 25 minutes. But the weather was overcast and the water was choppy.

I loved the ride though. There is nothing like being on the East China Sea (as long as you don't get sea sick). Now I can't describe the breath taking view from the boat (a picture doesn't do it justice), but there reached a point where we lost visual contact with the island and Okinawa. Nothing but water and clouds. It was beautiful. It made me realize how this never happens: to have essentially nothing in sight. Now I have done a lot of cross country travel and their are times when traveling through New Mexico sure feels like this, but it isn't. There are still mountains, roads, birds, vegetation, etc... But not this morning. This morning there was nothing. This morning all there was, was water and gray clouds as far as the eye could see (which wasn't too far).

It's weird how isolation can feel so warm. It was lightly raining and I was standing outside. It wasn't particularly warm, but not cold either: it was perfect. It's obviously damp, but I am not really wet. It's serene.

It makes me realize how little time I take to rest. Sure, I on average sleep about 10 hours a day, but as soon as I am up, I am UP: full-tilt. How sad is it that devotions, prayer, and quite reflection have been replaced by ministry, work, and bouncing from one event to the next because heaven forbid I miss something with friends.

Even now at 37,000 feet, I look out my window and we are above a blanket of clouds. There's nothing. But in the cabin the flight attendants are running around, a movie is playing on the screen, and I am writing this. It's not like the boat. When I return to Atlanta, I think I need to get off the "plane" and live more on the "boat."