My pastor tells the story of a fellow who was nervous about his first flight on an airplane. After he had safely arrived at his destination, this fellow was asked how he liked his first plane ride. “Oh, it was okay,” he said, “but I never did put my whole weight on it.”
I understand that man, having recently taken to the skies myself on a trip to the coast of Texas. It was a business trip for my husband and a free frequent-flyer ticket for me – a deal too good to pass up. But it did mean I had to fly, which I rate alongside dental visits, gynecological exams and waiting in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles on my list of “stuff I’d really rather not do.”
Don’t bother to quote safety statistics to me – I know that flying is actually much safer than driving a car. But when I imagine something going wrong in a car, I can also envision the possibility that I might emerge unscathed. Ain’t so when you’re 30,000 feet in the air. All the possibilities are worse than ugly.
And don’t tell me how comfortable flying is, either. Unless you’re traveling first class or stopped growing at the age of eight, you’re likely to be wedged in that airplane seat tighter than a tater in its skin. But of course, that can also be a good thing if you hit a stretch of turbulence, which we did. My nerves were tossed and shaken, but my hips didn’t budge.
And speaking of turbulence — for a woman whose nerves are shot before the car is parked in the airport garage, turbulence is not a happy experience. On our recent flight, our seats were over the wing and the ride got so bumpy that I fully expected to see the rivets dancing out of the wings on that plane.
My husband flies fairly often and seems to be quite casual about entrusting his well-being to a bunch of total strangers – from the mechanics who make sure the rivets stay in the wings, to the pilots who keep those tons of metal airborne, to the air traffic controllers who direct the great aerial ballet around major jetports. But I’m afraid I may never be so cool about flying. I just can’t seem to make myself relax and “put my full weight” on those planes. It’s almost like I think that by remaining uptight, I’m helping keep the aircraft aloft – that it is propelled by a precise mixture of jet fuel and my adrenaline.
I know folks whose spiritual lives are like my plane rides. They’ve got enough religion to make ‘em miserable, but not enough to do ‘em any good, as the old saying goes. They’re on their way to heaven, but they sure aren’t enjoying the trip. Know why? They’re afraid to put their full weight on God. They trust Him in some ways, but not in all ways; they give Him pieces of their lives, but not every part; they let Him see the tidy places in their hearts, but constantly fear He will wander off to those dark closets and rooms they are trying so hard to hide.
It’s really foolish for me to stay tense throughout a plane flight when I could be enjoying the beautiful scenery or taking a nap. Jesus did that, you know, on a boat right in the middle of a violent storm. How could He do that? He’d put all His weight on the faithfulness of His Father, whose love and protection and timing were absolutely perfect.
I may never really trust airplanes, but I can trust the One who holds my life in His hands. There are lots of things in this life that I can’t, and shouldn’t, put my whole weight on – things unworthy of my trust. But God is not one of those things.
He’s good, His plans for me are good and knowing that, maybe next time I fly, I’ll just sit back, take a nap and let Him keep the rivets in the wings. I could use the break – keeping the world together just wears me out.