Flying...the Friendly Skies

Many of you all know, I don’t really like to fly. In actuality, I’ve flown plenty. I flew for the first time at age 1 from the US to Scotland where, as my Mom’s famous family story goes, I learned to walk in Edinburgh. When my father’s job posted him outside London the later part of high school and into my college years, I “jumped the pond” as the Brits would say, at least quarterly for years. But when you’re leaving 3 babies on the other side of the world, you start to get a bit weary of international travel. The feeling of adventure is less, and the worry is heightened. When my Nana from Boston to Philadelphia to visit us she would report; “I had to pray the plane up and down (insert number) times.” Direct flights were better to her…less praying necessary. I thought this was funny as a younger gal but found myself adopting this method during our many flights around Europe en route to Russia. I would be irrationally calculating the likelihood of a terrorist boarding our plane in this airport versus that airport. I’d look for our proximity to the “Exit” doors all the while knowing that those doors are almost never, if ever, used. I’d consider the weather, or what I thought to be the age of the aircraft, the amount of time the crew had, to my very uninformed knowledge, seemed to have to prepare and “check “ the plane from the last flight until we took off. The whole time I would simultaneously chide myself for being so paranoid but what can I say; that’s really what was going on in my head. There was constantly a pull between my (fairly) unrealistic fear and the knowledge of my Creator who loved me and had plans and purposes for me beyond my understanding but represented the only place I should want to be. By the thirteenth flight (yes, “13th”), I was slightly more relaxed. I kept reminding myself each flight that God was Sovereign and that nothing thwarted His plans and so forth. By this last flight, I simply hydrated, popped two Tylenol, squeezed into my Economy Class seat (or “steerage seat” as Matt called them) and settled into the stale air filled metal tube that would be our home for the next 12 hours. Ana, on the other hand, was an angel. After her nap, she remained very calm and happily sat on our laps for hours while amusing herself with something as mundane as my coat zipper or the seat button. Why can’t we have this childlike faith as adults? Ana was sitting in the lap of her earthly Father (or Mother) and had no fear. In the lap of our Heavenly Father, why should we?