I could hear the caimans clicking in the dark distance. This sharptoothed alligator species makes a sound reminiscent of a child who's just learned to snap the tip of his tongue back across the roof of his mouth, over and over. Multiply this by the thousands of caimans lurking along the swampy edges of a river inconceivably long, intricate, and dense, and we had ourselves our own jungle rhythm section while puttering into the inky black, just a few strokes shy of midnight.

Nine of us floated in a metal speedboat that appeared to have already spent its best years on previous passengers. Dings and scratches scarred its exterior, and the faux leather cushions that exhale when you sit on them were torn at the piping. I trusted the engine was in better shape, though honestly I hardly cared; I hadn't felt this alive with excitement in years.

Out on the broad waters of the Amazon we were caiman hunting, although this term is misleading—and I think illegal, come to think of it—because what we actually mean by "hunting" is catching and releasing, though that phrase doesn't sound nearly as thrilling. Bigode, a native Amazonian, maneuvered the boat with prowess, and Milton, our jungle guide, lay on his stomach, hanging halfway over the bow. They are the Batman and Robin of the Amazon. Both scanned their flashlights across the dense forest as though they were peeling back an opaque curtain for us urbanites. We were glued to whatever revelation the next illuminated swath of jungle would yield.

Squinting my eyes and jutting my neck out, I leaned over the edge of the boat, though not too close to the eerily black waters harboring a host of creatures that swim, slither, strangle, and saw in two. Life hadn't felt this electric since capture the flag in elementary school. I'd anted up to hunting for neon eyes.

Once locked on a shimmering pair, Milton held the flashlight steady while Bigode cut the engine and quietly steered the boat toward what appeared to be two glowing marbles growing increasingly larger. Eight feet away, seven, four, two.… Now inches from the caiman, whose size we couldn't tell, we held our breath, and before the thunderous splash registered with my senses, I realized that Milton, instead of reaching for the reptile with his hand, had plunged into the river. The boat rocked vigorously back and forth from the thrust of his bare feet, and everyone was yelling, not knowing if this was planned or a superunfortunate mishap—falling into foreboding waters next to a creature that could clap your head between its jaws.

Out of the water Milton emerged, lifting a two-foot baby caiman with both hands above his head, beaming like a victor, the way an athlete displays his gold cup to an adoring throng of admirers. I think he was more delighted by the shock value than the caiman, which were neck and neck in my book. A few of the guys hoisted him and his reluctant acquaintance back into the boat, and this curious creature was carefully passed around for our admiration. We wondered how close the mother might be—the larger, more vicious version. Milton clearly seemed unruffled by this possibility. We took turns rubbing the youngster's tummy, which Milton explained casts a hypnotic spell on the caiman, and sure enough he went right to sleep. After a few minutes, this catch and release program had come to an end, so Bigode flung our little guy, who could probably still chew your wrist off, back into the water. We watched his sleek and scaly body happily paddle away, probably hoping he'd live the rest of his years without a grown man tackling him from the sky. I admit this was rude.

I don't know if I consciously understood this at the moment, but the Amazon had just placed a transaction on my being: I was sold. As if I had no say in the matter, as if God had been orchestrating this journey for quite some time.

I suppose it started three and a half years earlier in Nashville, Tennessee, when I tied a scarf around my neck and stepped out of my apartment into the chill of early winter for an appointment that would alter the course of my life. I was to meet with John Hartley and Stephen Doherty, an Englishman and Irishman respectively, who worked for Kingsway Music Group, a thriving publisher and label based in Eastbourne, England. Stephen's job was to sign and develop talent, and John was one of their primary record producers. A mutual friend had set us up on a blind music-business date, which typically consists of one desperate party, the artist, and one mostly disinterested team of executives, better known as "the label."

My music career had stalled to an infant's crawl, and my book and Bible study writing was just beginning to find its legs, wobbling in a direction that mostly seemed forward. After two failed record deals and having hit the music business's grandmotherly age of thirty, I realized I was nearing the end of an already ephemeral dream of a successful career as a singer-songwriter. It was like being on the back side of a blink. Though I'd been in Nashville awhile, in many ways I felt like I was back at square one, only this time older and with less time to justify squandering more of my fleeting youth on a pipe dream that seemed to be working splendidly for everyone else but not for me. The other wanderlust artist types like myself were tearing it up around me, while the responsible friends I'd left back home in D.C. were either climbing the hill in politics or having babies and buying brick homes. I had that uneasy feeling you get when traveling seventy miles per hour down a highway you're not sure is taking you in the right direction; the gnawing uncertainty is not quite enough to warrant turning around and backtracking ground already covered, in case you are in fact headed the right way, but with every yard forward the paranoia escalates. Essentially, I was too far in to cut my losses and turn back, but goodness, if I were to eventually discover I was indeed on the wrong road, I'd be eighty-two by the time I could get back to the beginning to start life over the "correct" way.

So it was with flickering hope that I walked into Fido's, a local coffee shop that used to be a pet store, hence the cleverish name, on a brisk December morning to meet Stephen and John. I soon discerned that these guys weren't out to sign the next big thing as much as looking for like-minded artists who shared the vision and passion of a label that treasured timeless songs for the church—and preferably for people who could sing, write, and play. We enjoyed one another's company as we relished breakfast in front of the sunsoaked windows facing Twenty-First Avenue, toasted by our lattes and the early morning rays that tempered a winter's morning. We "got" each other the way six-year-olds can meet at the swings and five minutes later become best friends. We shared similar spiritual leanings, each other's dry humor, and a penchant for good muffins.

I could tell things were going well, but not the kind of unheard of well that was about to ensue: Stephen suddenly made me an outlandish offer. I honestly don't know what inspired him after a first conversation, but he asked me if I'd like to make a record with Kingsway. Before I'd finished my muffin. Before he'd heard me sing. We laugh about this now and curiously scratch our heads. "Stephen, what were you thinking?" I've asked him. "How could you offer me a deal without having ever heard me sing?"

"I just had a feeling," he says in his Irish brogue. "It felt like the Lord was behind it."

One month later I touched down at London's Gatwick Airport, little knowing that I was embarking on a whole new journey that would eventually lead me down the Amazon chasing reptiles at midnight—and to more noble endeavors. John and Stephen had invited me to sing at a live video and audio recording of a multiartist Kingsway event called Worship at the Abbey. The concert would be held in Studio One at Abbey Road, the famous recording venue of the Beatles. Each morning leading up to the event I left my hotel for rehearsals and crisscrossed the high streets of Saint John's Wood, ending up at the world-renowned crosswalk where the cover of the Beatles' Abbey Road album was snapped. I paused for a moment of silence, pinched myself, then, with swinging arms and widely gaited steps—in Beatles-esque fashion—crossed the street to the front doors. I was practically whistling as I skipped my way up the stoop to the front door for rehearsal, first stopping at Abbey Road's in-house kitchen where world-class chefs dabbed scones with intoxicating clotted cream alongside steaming coffees that occasionally caused a tear to dislodge from my eye.

The night of the concert crackled with excitement and anticipation. Worship leaders from around the world, cameras, and a live audience crammed into a historic setting. It's funny the elements you remember about a certain event versus the ones that actually end up changing your life. I still have vivid memories of vainly trying to wrangle my nerves backstage moments before following Tim Hughes, a singer and songwriter whose songs have traveled the global church. My skin still tingles at the thought of Jocelyn Brown singing "Leaning on the Everlasting Arms" the way only a black gospel singer can take an already airborne song and blast it to the moon. And then there was the attractive, aloof keyboard player who didn't give me the time of day, but who can blame me for trying to lasso his attention? What I barely remember is the four-minute video that projected onto the screen near the end of the evening about a small ministry in Brazil called Ray of Hope that serves the largely forgotten people of the Amazon region.