May marks my 11-year anniversary in California.
The world didn't end as predicted in 2000 (remember Y2K?) so that spring I'd packed the few things that fit into my two-seater, headed south on I-5 and showed up on a friend's doorstep in the Bay Area.
Fast forward seven years.
Spring again. Packed again. Back on the I-5. This time bound for LA.
"God has released you to pursue the adventure of His calling," said my pastor and friend.
Even though I didn't clearly see the reasons for change, it felt like time. I was happy when the move fell into place so quickly; my roommate and I took the first place we found on the Internet that would rent to us sight unseen. Seemed to confirm it was time to go.
"I feel like LA holds part of God's redemptive plan for me," I'd told friends. Yet I have a lingering sense of delayed destiny.
Blinded my ambition when I was a young reporter, I'd wasted the platforms I could have used to help others.
Regrets? Certainly.
Redemption? Absolutely.
Spring again. A fresh start.
But why do my moves always seem to coincide with the end of the world? In 2000, it was Y2K. This time it's supposedly Judgment Day. Starting right here in the Pacific Rim on May 21st (read the prophecy here).
Guess I'll be happy either way with a front row seat to either the sunset...or the Rapture.
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