Hope Up In The Air

It was a bus with wings, and I got a front row seat—literally—of the boarding. I was in seat 1C, right next to the aisle, so I got to see everyone board. (And no, that doesn’t mean I was in first class. There was no first class.)

They weren’t your seasoned international travelers. They were families, young parents with young children of all ages, and grandmothers and grandfathers with fading eyesight and canes, needing assistance to find their way to their seats. That’s because we weren’t traveling to Turkey or the United Arab Emirates or Russia. We weren’t even traveling to the capital of the republic to the north of us. This flight was domestic. We were going from the capital to a small town in the far south of the country.

It was an hour flight or an epic 16-hour car ride. We’d opted for the bus with wings.

The two men sitting next to me both said a silent prayer just as the plane revved its engines and began speeding down the runway. I knew from the gesture they made, a gesture that signifies a person has finished praying. It wasn’t a bad idea. Not a bad idea at all. I asked my good Father for grace myself, and in seconds, we were airborne. By the time the captain turned off the seatbelt sign, we were in the thick of a brilliant white cloud.

This flight wasn’t just different because it was domestic. It wasn’t just different because of the top of plane or the kind of passengers. This flight was different because I was different. At least, that’s what I was going for. Sure, it’s true that local airlines aren’t allowed to fly into many other developed countries because they don’t meet the safety requirements. Sure, it was not only possible but probable that I had forgotten something at home, and it was even more probable that I’d forget something where we were headed. (Forgetting toothbrushes has become somewhat of a hobby of mine.) Sure, with this many people crammed this close together in a single metal tube, the likelihood that I would catch something was astronomical. Sure, I could get some type of stomach virus or salmonella from undercooked dumplings in the town where we’d be staying. Sure, in this country the probability of dying in a taxi is precisely one million and seventeen times more likely than dying in a plane crash, and we’d be taking long taxi rides once we landed.

But, there was something else resting like a giant sleeping whale underneath all those flittering anxieties. It was as unmovable as a mountain. It was as steady and consistent as a military parade. And if I might allow myself the feeling (I admit I’m stepping into uncharted waters here), it was as joyful as a songbird in a birdbath right after a spring rain. And I could almost feel it tangibly. It was the conscious awareness of the presence and smile of the living God of creation.

You cannot buy this confidence, this freedom, this hope, this security. The plane might fall out of the sky like a shot duck during hunting season, but God would make the fall with me, and when physics was done doing whatever physics might do to this physical body, I knew I’d awake and see him, and he’d be really happy to see me.

I could spend this entire trip vomiting from whatever demon virus or bacteria that might hitch a ride on my lunch, and even so I knew that the one who had designed my digestive system would be right beside with his arm across my shoulders as I convulsed over a toilet or, worse, a hole in an outhouse. He doesn’t leave his children. He’s just not that kind of Father.

We are not spared from the harshest realities that plague this fallen world of ours. We are, however, confident that we will not walk through them alone. And so, I flew through the sky that morning in hope, the hope that I was known, the hope that I was held, the hope that I was loved, and the hope that I was not alone.