"Ladies and gentlemen, we've been cleared for takeoff," buzzed the captain from the cockpit. I breathed a worry-laden sigh and settled further into my uncomfortable aisle seat, now reduced to two-thirds its original size by Queen Latifah's encroaching left thigh. At least she smells like a department store, I thought to myself as I anxiously awaited departure and lamented the loss of my right armrest which she had pushed back to make room for herself on the tiny plane, a necessary anchor for me to grasp during takeoff. Finally, the all-too-familiar sounds of engines revving and cabins pressurizing began, though something was very different this time.
"The engine! That noise! What is that noise?!"
My mind began racing as beads of sweat instantaneously formed on the bridge of my nose, sorting through every possible cause of the sound, the harbinger of my doom and certain death.
"Is that normal? Oh my gosh, they forgot to do an engine check. It's going to break. There's a screw loose. This plane is too old; I knew it looked a little weathered. We're not going to make it past 3,000 feet. Worse, what if it lasts to cruising altitude when we're over the ocean and then gives out? I'll review the flotation device instructions. I still don't know how to pull my seat cushion out correctly. Actually check that – Lord, if this plane goes down, I do not want to survive. Much better to be instantly incinerated than eaten by sharks. But what about the Race? I was looking so forward to it! Oh my gosh – I had so much life to live! Why, GOD! Why this plane?!"
Panic had set in. The walls of the aircraft seemed ever smaller, Queen Latifah's thigh grew ever bigger and the rattling of the right engine had taken up residence in every centimeter of my ears. The flight attendants laughed like evil clowns as my parents told them of my upcoming adventures around the globe, marvelling at how I'd last through a year of flights. The World Race was starting to seem like a bad idea if it was going to involve flying.
As we bumped and rattled up to 10,000 feet, I grimaced at the frequency at which my stomach was being dropped and taken away by the altitude shifts, still with the sound of the marble-filled engine in my ears and defeatedly pulled my beanie over my eyes to hide the salty tears which had begun to spill over the edges of my eyelids, no longer able to contain the fountain of panic flowing within me. Having flown twice already that day, my Klonopin long worn-off, my mind turned to the only source of hope I had.
"God… help."
No answer.
"Lord, I won't make it seven hours like this. Please make the engine stop rattling. Do something."
Nothing but an engine that continued to clack and clatter and a plane that continued to climb.
My tears grew larger and more frequent as this new sense of being totally abandoned to die settled in. My face grew hot with rage at the people around me who dared to chat with others or calmly read books. "Does no one realize we're about to die?" I thought to myself as I cried like a silent baby behind my six-dollar beanie.
Why wasn't anyone panicking? Didn't they hear the noise? Didn't they feel the head-bobbling turbulence (which apparently is now termed "rough air" to avoid instilling fear in passengers – rough air is still rough, TSA)? My face still red-hot and my emotions raging, I turned back to God.
"Look, something's gotta give."
Nothing again.
The whole flight I cried out to the Lord for help and heard nothing. Nothing other than thoughts that crept in like, "Sometimes God saves people by letting them 'come on home,'" which offered little peace as I imagined God "lovingly" crashing my plane and experiencing the fear of Himself as He watched a righteously livid, soaking wet, post-plane-crash Meredith approach the Pearly Gates, fists clenched and choice words ready to be unleashed.
The whole flight passed by at a glacial pace, and as we touched down in Dakar I had 30% less hair on my head and 30% more wrinkles than just seven hours prior in New York.
And then it dawned on me.
I'm okay.
I made it.
I didn't die on a plane with a broken engine.
I was so busy panicking
being angry with God for putting me on a broken plane
and noticing how doomed I seemed
to notice how fine I really was.
How often do I do that in the rest of my life?
How often do I focus on the rattling engines around me and forget to step back and see that I'm still flying over the ocean?
How often does my present perception of reality consume me to the extent that I can't see things as they really are?
Forgive me for not trusting you more, Lord.
I am too often another Israelite in the wilderness complaining of hunger with manna beneath my feet.
I am too often another Israelite complaining of thirst when there's water inside the rock.
I am too often consumed by my idea of your will and often refuse to see outside of what I have envisioned.
Also, please let us travel frequently by car and train on the World Race.
Amen.
m
