If you’ve never traveled abroad then flying might not be magical. It’s understandable. A few hours in the air and a few time zones over doesn’t really seem miraculous, especially if you do it often.
I love flying. I have always loved flying. The hustle and bustle of the airport, the thrill of the take off and the landing, the view from thousands of miles above. It’s practically an aphrodisiac. But I didn’t view it as miraculous either until this trip.
I took two flights that each lasted a little over an hour to get to Toronto. The airport there was gorgeous. I mean honestly, I’ve only seen one that rivals it even a little. And then I boarded my first Boeing 777. And life stopped. We took off and there was no wifi, no connection to people I loved. There was me, some audiobooks, a journal, and a bag of turkey jerky. And the in-flight movie screen. For fourteen hours I was suspended in a place where time ceased to exist. I slept. I ate. I wrote. I read. I listened. And yes, I watched two movies. It was magical. It was miraculous. I had the time to process leaving my entire family behind. I had the space I needed to finally cry about leaving my friends at Brio and church. I was able to pray and be grateful for this adventure. And thousands of pounds of metal stayed in the sky for fourteen hours so I could.
And now I’m here. The next few weeks will see me orientating. I still don’t know a lick of Mandarin, but I’m going to start. It’s times like these when you know that your life is truly miraculous.