Gentle Reader,
A bit of business: There will be no new content – Facebook page, newsletter, posts – from June 10 – June 16. I’m headed to the coast to celebrate 12 years of marriage. I thought about scheduling some things, but then I’d have to get online to share those things via social media, and I really, really want to be completely unplugged for a whole week. More than that, I need to be unplugged for a whole week. So I’ll catch you on Tuesday, June 19, for some chit-chat about The Beatles.
Kate says: fly.
Go.
I hate flying.
I was 16 the first time I hopped on a plane. The ride was less than an hour, but I was pretty sure I was going to die. My dad told me later that all the color drained from my face and he was concerned that I would pass out. All by myself, in a tin can of terror, surrounded by people I didn’t know who might want to talk to me. It was terrible. I buried my head in a book and prayed that nobody would notice me. And that the engine wouldn’t catch fire.
Several years passed before I flew again. Chris took me to Alaska to meet his family. When we arrived in Anchorage, we had to transfer to a small commuter plane to get to his hometown. (By small, I mean seats less than 20 people). The crew left our luggage behind because the plane was too heavy due to a load of fish – and transporting the fish was way more important than me having pajamas. As we barely skimmed over the tops of trees and narrowly missed crashing into mountains, I was again convinced that death was immanent.
The worst, by far, was the 17-plus hour ride to London. Do you have any idea how freaky it is to fly over the North Pole? All kinds of existential questions assaulted me – Who am I? Why am I here? Can polar bears jump high enough to reach the plane? What time is it when you’re standing at the North Pole? I’m going to die, aren’t I? Add in a screaming baby and a husband who needs to stretch his legs and can’t and I was not happy, in any way.
But then…
The destination is reached and the horror of flight quickly fades. It was worth pushing through the fear to visit my aunt and uncle for a week, worth meeting Chris’ family, certainly worth visiting Buckingham Palace.
I think that applies to life, too. Sometimes it sucks. It hurts. It’s scary. But for those whose faith is in the Risen Savior, the destination will blot out all heartache over the journey.
Stop.
