Buckle Up Sister

I remember a time long ago when I was a perky little waitress slinging burgers at a roadside diner, oblivious to danger right around the corner.  The kitschy little eatery doubled as a landing strip and hosted a string of airplane hangars with “fly-ins” every weekend. 

We served simple food in a down-home atmosphere.  Locals would pull up a chair to join any table in progress and share the neighborhood gossip or promise of rain on the thirsty bean fields. Chiding each other and teasing the staff, all sorts of small-town characters came together daily for a decent meal and good fun.

A bunch of Levi-clad farmers, doubling as pilots, egged me on to venture up in a plane one sunny Saturday.  The sky was clear and after a bit of protesting, I finally caved in. Before I knew it, I was buckled into the tiny Cessna and taxiing down the runway on an exciting voyage.

As the plane left the field, I quickly learned the difference between take-off in a jumbo jet and lifting off while harnessed to the seat in a flimsy tin can, careening toward the sky.

Simultaneously, I was reminded of both my fear of heights and my propensity to motion sickness.  A blazing inferno erupted in my chest and pumped through my veins at lightning speed.  Channels of sweat poured from my face.  Knuckles white, clenched in terror, I closed my eyes.

What if we crash?  How will they identify my body?  Oh, my word, I’m going to puke.

Swallowing hard as my mouth watered, I peeked out ever so slightly in search of a box, a bag, a can, any sort of receptacle.  Suddenly, the bottom dropped out, and the plane plummeted as the pilot chuckled at my expense.   

Eventually, we leveled out above the clouds and I opened my eyes to exquisite beauty beyond measure.  The sky was tranquil, serene and breathtaking as I stared in awe.

Sometimes the road to beautiful is bumpy. It’s scary.  There is no roadmap and the path seems uncertain at best.  We white-knuckle it, peering around for a parachute.

But when I was airborne, all those years ago in that metal death trap, in the scared stiff, panic-stricken moments, do you know what I DIDN’T do?  I didn’t reach over and take the controls.  You see, my pilot was experienced.  He had a pilot license and his grey hair spoke of hundreds of successful flights.

Listen, sister, how much more will we trust the One who holds all of it in His hands?

I’m not saying this is easy.  I find myself reaching across, struggling to grab hold of the wheel time after time. Often our hearts ache for a glimpse of a bright tomorrow. An inkling of when this struggle will end.  A reminder that there is joy to be found in the midst of trouble.

And someday, we will open our eyes to the most radiant magnificent sight.

For now, we live one step at a time, one day at a time.  And the One who holds me and holds you, the One we can run to, who is always faithful, calls us to an awesome life of adventure.

Buckle Up Sister.

♥ Tess

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Psalm 46:1 God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.