Drive the Bus
People come. People go.
That’s just the way of things.
I once heard an evangelist say that pastoring a church is like driving a bus.
People get on.
People get off.
You can’t control who climbs aboard, and you can’t beg the ones who step off to come back.
Your job—your sacred duty—is to keep both hands on the wheel.
So drive the bus, Pastor.
Just… drive… the bus.
But here’s the thing nobody tells you—people don’t just hop off your bus.
They drift. They fade. They vanish down the long road of life until one day you realize the laughter that used to fill the seats behind you is gone.
And yet… every once in a while, someone reappears.
And when they do, it’s like no time has passed at all. The stories pick up mid-sentence, and you both realize—you never really stopped riding together.
Family reunions were invented to hold what’s left together.
Because chaos has a way of pulling everyone apart.
People scatter, like leaves caught in October wind.
Fall away.
Drop off.
Get off the bus.
So I thought, why not a Friend Reunion?
At first, it sounds brilliant. Then reality shows its teeth.
Not all my friends are friends with each other. Some never will be.
I’ve got Democrats, Republicans, Independents.
Black, white, brown. Baptists, Mennonites, Pentecostals, and a few who just love Jesus without a label.
Even among my Church of God brothers, some click better than others.
So maybe… maybe a Friend Reunion would turn into more of a collision.
Still, I’m proud to wear the badge—Church of God.
They’ve got gatherings that light the soul and remind you you’re not alone in the trenches.
And I swore, once Mom passed, that I’d be at every single one.
That was the plan.
But Mom… she had one last request.
“Take care of the pets.”
A Rottweiler. A pit bull. And a cat.
Three furry promises with teeth and claws and hearts that still wait for her voice at the door.
The Rottweiler’s mean and skittish—doesn’t trust a soul but me.
The pit bull’s loyal but needy.
And the cat? She runs the house like it’s her kingdom.
Can’t exactly ask anyone to stop in and risk a limb to feed them.
And my kids—well, they’ve got lives to chase and hours too short to let dogs out three times a day.
So I stay.
Bound by duty.
By love.
By a promise made at the edge of eternity.
Didn’t see that one coming.
But I’ll figure it out.
I always do.
I’m praying for a way—to honor Mom, care for the creatures she loved, and still show up to every meeting, every revival, every spark where the saints gather to remember why they started this journey in the first place.
Until then, I’ll keep the bus running.
Keep my eyes on the road.
And drive.
Just… drive the bus.