It takes about two vodka tonics before I’m physically able to board a plane—or as I like to call it, a coffin with wings. Another $6 shot of liquid courage from the nice flight attendants, and I’m good to go for the duration.
This becomes a problem with age and maturity as I begin to travel more both because my family resides in Texas (aka, Utopia) and because I am beginning to take business/school-related trips to meet sources and do research. But for most flights, it works.
That is, except for this past weekend.
I traveled home to good old San Antonio for a close friend’s wedding. On the way, I carried out my usual routine and made it to my dad’s awaiting classy minivan with little more than cramped legs. (Aside: I should never get cramped legs when traveling due to my ridiculously short stature. Thank you, American Airlines.)
The trip back to O’Hare was quite a different story. I waited at the crowded Tex-Mex bar in the San Antonio airport, reading Cosmopolitan, as my flight was delayed once, twice, thrice. Two-and-a-half hours later and facing the bottom of my second double, the attendant announced it was time to board. If this were the end of the story, I would have pleasantly drifted as Damien Rice or Lucinda Williams sang me to sleep through my ear buds.
Instead, we sat on a runway for an hour while my fogginess wore off and then lifted off into certain demise in the cloudy skies. (This is where it begins to make sense that I’m writing this for a religion blog.)
Some respond to turbulence by tightening their seatbelts or distracting themselves with juicy reads. I, on the other hand, dig my nails into my palms and pray to God that I live to see tomorrow. It’s more like a chant: “Please God, don’t let us crash into the Gateway Arch. Please God, don’t let us get struck by lightning … or another plane.” (I also happen to be ridiculously claustrophobic, so occasionally I’ll toss in a “Please God, don’t let the flight attendants park the drink cart next to my seat.”)
It may be silly. And it may be true that whatever will happen is already written, and God doesn’t cause or prevent it, but simply allows it.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop my chant when the pilot crackles on and warns us to buckle up.
Interestingly enough, the great thing about my prodigal prayer is that it does remind me how often I forget my daily, hourly need for His help and grace. And it often does change my routine, if only for a few days.
Or until one of the four toddlers surrounding me on the plane begins to scream.
“Please God, let me not kill small children.”
Print
E-mail
Comments
Post new comment