Wednesday, July 6, 2011

On airplanes and my praying mom.

When my planes begin to taxi, I begin to pray. Not that I've ever been afraid of flying, as far as I remember. In fact I loved riding in airplanes as a child, and I always took the window seat. For the view. And because then I get to be the arbiter of lighting.

I always took the window seat, and I always sat next to Mom who was usually the buffer between Josh and me. At takeoff she would always take our hands and pray, for safe passage and smooth sailing I think. Watch over us, Father, keep us. 

So now, though I've mostly flown alone since that first time in August 2007 when New York City upturned my life and God invaded my heart, whenever the seatbelt clicks and tightens and the airplane rolls to the runway, I instinctually begin to pray.

Because Mom taught me in the way I should go, when she would take my hands to ask for travelling mercies, that it's not ultimately this heavy, metal gravity-defying tube that upholds me in the air, nor its hurtling through the clouds that ultimately bears me to my destination. She taught me to pray.

Airplanes remind me of my praying Mom and her desire that I, too, would rest my faith beyond , airplanes, and that I would commit my sinner self into the hands of God who is merciful at home and abroad.

Airplanes help me to be grateful for her. Thanks Mom, for picking up my antibiotics, hemming my linen pants, and for doing and buying everything you could think of to make my trip even a tiny bit more comfortable. I didn't choose to come to be comfortable, and I know that this frightens you. I am thankful for your heart behind the meticulous care. Don't worry, Mom I am in good hands. The ones that hold airplanes, the universe, those nails, and me. And you.

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