Years ago a wise and respected mentor suggested that I needed to experience the church outside the boundaries of our nation. He had friends in Scotland and assured me that he could facilitate a pulpit exchange with a Scottish pastor. All I needed to do was come up with the airfare for our family of seven, with five children ages three to 13. So we did it. We emptied out our small savings, borrowed the rest, booked a flight on British Air (in the days when spouses and children could fly for greatly reduced rates) and soon were shivering on the tarmac of old Prestwick Airport, surrounded by our 21 pieces of luggage. We were met by two elders from the Scottish church who drove us four hours north into the Highlands to a wee manse in Kinlochleven.
We wonder now how we had the nerve to go. Yet at the same time, we agree that it was the best thing we ever did as a family.