"Seven!"

So yesterday I had the rare opportunity to have lunch with some of the guys from the music ministry team I traveled with in college. Several of us stayed in (or in my case, moved back to) Tulsa, but we rarely see each other, at least not all at once. This weekend, our former team leader was in town and invited us all to lunch.

Most of us showed. Two were dweebs and didn’t make it.

Anyway, while we were catching up on each others’ lives and reminiscing about the past (while two of our teenage offspring sat at the table and tried very hard to look interested)…I thought back to the times we were on the road together. I thought about my good friend Davey, who also was on the team but couldn’t make it to lunch, since he doesn’t live in this state.

And I realized I couldn’t remember my number. But I could remember Davey’s.

Lemme ‘splain.

There were 16 of us on the tour–8 guys and 8 girls, traveling 8 weeks through the U.S. and Europe. And we were all assigned a specific number. And every time we piled into the bus, before we left for wherever we were going next, we would count off: “1, 2, 3, 4…” to make sure we were all on the bus. It felt a bit childish for us grown-up college kids, but it worked; no one got left behind in Paris or Altensteig or Delft, or in Moberly, Missouri.

I realized that after all this time, I couldn’t remember my own count-off number. But I could remember Davey’s. Davey’s number was seven.

The reason I remembered this is that Davey was so proud of his number that he would say it all the time. “Seven!”

He would say it when he wasn’t supposed to say it: “Seven!”

He’d say it when you were trying to sleep on the bus. “Seven!”

He’d say it when we were trying to pray together: “Seven!”

So when we’d get on the bus and count off, it usually went something like this:

“One!” “Two!”

“SEVEN!”

“Three!” “Four!”

“SEVEN!”

“Five!” “Six!”

“….” (crickets chirping)

And we’d all look back at Davey, who would grin slyly, knowing full well we couldn’t continue the count-off without him. (Because being only in college, we could only count in sequence.)

Eventually, after a few moments of nervous sweating, wondering what we were going to do if we coudn’t finish the count-off…Davey would let us off the hook. “SEVEN!”

“Eight!” “Nine!” “Ten!”

“SEVEN!”

And so on.

So I told the guys at the table I couldn’t remember my count-off number anymore. But I could remember Davey’s.

Kevin, our team leader sitting next to me, looked at me a moment, and asked:

“Was it seven?”

“Yes!”

And although we laughed out loud together at the table, I know we were all feeling a sense of loss. You see, because we can’t remember our own count-off numbers anymore…we know we won’t be able to travel together ever again.

Guess that means Davey will have to travel by himself from now on.

Or that we will all have to have the number seven. Because it’s the only number we remember.

Wayward Son

Musician. Composer. Recovering perfectionist. Minister-in-transition. Lover of puns. Hijacker of rock song references. Questioner of the status quo. I'm not really a rebel. Just a sincere Christ-follower with a thirst for significance that gets me into trouble. My quest has taken me over the fence of institutional Christianity. Here are some of my random thoughts along the way. Read along, join in the conversation. Just be nice.
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