by Jim Eaton
My wife's a flight attendant; I'm a veteran flyer. I know what I'm doing, I know the safety record at Southwest Airlines, where she works, where I almost always fly. I've learned the system and usually manage a decent seat; I have more drink coupons than I could ever use if I decide I want something that costs. Mostly I relax, listen to music, catch up on podcasts. So recently when I sat down in 17-C, my favorite seat, I was feeling pretty good about things. Row 17 is the first row served by the C flight attendant, C is an aisle seat, my preference. I said hello to the lady sitting by the window and secretly hoped no one would sit in the middle. I unpacked and switched my iPhone to airplane mode just as they made the turn off your cellphones announcement. I was on the way home after a nice trip, a couple hours or so from Nashville back to Detroit. No worries.
As we backed away from the gate and the flight attendants did their emergency safety briefing, I watched out the window and drifted off. But after a moment, I realized my seat mate was sitting in rigid anxiety. I smiled, said hi, asked her if everything was ok. She laughed a little self-deprecating laugh and said yes, that it was her first flight. After a moment, she said quietly, as to tell me something secret, that she was very nervous. In fact, her whole body radiated anxiety. She was scared and it showed.
I mentioned that Southwest had never had a crash, that she'd probably been in more danger on her way to the airport, and she smiled again and said, "I know", though clearly she didn't. As the plane rolled down the runway, I started to tell her what was going to happen: that we'd stop for a moment, then speed up, the plane would tilt up and then there would be a clunk—not to worry, only the wheels coming up. It seemed to help and in fact, of course, we began to do just those things. But as the nose went up, so did her anxiety. She was gripping her seat rest and I put my hand over hers; she immediately grabbed my hand. I'm a minister and a veteran of receiving lines; I've been through the guys who want to show you how hard they can grab, I've had an NFL player make my hand disappear, but I don't think anyone's ever put as much desperation into holding my hand as she did.
As the plane leveled out, her grip loosened, she laughed nervously and said, "Sorry", and I retrieved my hand. She looked out the window and said, "Are we really ok?", and I said "Yes, we're really ok," and with that she took out a book. I opened mine and we passed the flight without another word. As they made the announcements before landing, her anxiety went up again. Again I told her what would happen: the downward sweep, the clunk when the wheels came down, the possibility of a lound bang and a shock when we landed, all normal. She nodded, looked out the window and then in a quiet voice said, "Do you think I could hold your hand again?" So she did.
This coming Sunday we will read the story of Jesus and his disciples in a boat in the midst of a storm, a storm the disciples think could kill them, wipe out their lives. I know that feeling; I've been there, on Lake Michigan, off Beaver Island, with the waves up and the wind like an angry beast. A lot of people are living with similiar anxieties today. Every night, my daughter and son-in-law go to bed wondering if he'll have a job tomorrow; every day, people wonder how they will hang onto their homes, their lives, their health insurance. Like the disciples, sometimes I want to ask Jesus, "Don't you care?"
That's when I hear him asking, "How come you're such a coward?"—and look down to realize, he's been holding my hand the whole time.
That's what happens on a good day anyway; to be honest, there are days I don't see it, don't feel it, don't know it. I think that's where faith comes in. Faith is believing he's holding on during the days I can't see it. There's a great song by Pink Floyd called Learning to Fly with this line: "A soul in tension that is learning to fly / Condition grounded but determined to try / Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies / Tongue-tied and twisted just an earth-bound misfit, I" That's me: condition grounded but determined to try.
I'll probably never see that lady again. She walked off the plane, back into regular life. But I respect what she did. She was scared but she found the faith to fly.
(Comments to Jim at fccucc@me.com.)
First Congregational Church UCC
327 Washington
Owosso, MI 48867