flying – A Life Overseas |

Do Not Worry About Tomorrow? How About Next Tuesday?

This is in the Bible: “Do not fret. It only leads to evil.”

It’s not fair, really. People who fret are trying to prevent evil. They are being conscientious. Yet they are chronically misunderstood.

Take me, for example. You’d think that after over 100 flights with kids, someone would notice all the mission-critical tasks I perform. Shushing. Quadruple-checking departure times. Taking up more than our fair share of the overhead compartment weight limit. Producing entertainment out of thin air. Distributing pretzels. Fanning airsick kids with in-flight magazines. Finding lost Lego pieces. More shushing.

Repeatedly praying the pilot is sober.

My family rarely expresses their appreciation for these services. But I suppose that’s motherhood—notoriously under-appreciated. The cooking, the cleaning, the listening . . . especially on airplanes, when one strange sound could mean an imminent nose dive into the Atlantic.

Every once in a while it would be nice if, for example, my husband would say, “Dear, I just wanted to tell you that I notice the death grip you have on the arm rests. Thank you for your tireless watch-care over our family.” Instead, he usually says something helpful, like, “Did you know there’s never been a successful water landing in the ocean?”

In those moments, I’d like to call God up and say, “Are you sure you didn’t mean, ‘Do not joke around, it only leads to evil?’”

I know you’re probably thinking I sound imbalanced. So let me reassure you: I am very aware that flying isn’t the only thing I should worry about.

Did you know, for instance, that rabies can be dormant for a whole year? And that one of the first symptoms can be itchiness? If I don’t interrogate my son every time he scratches his left elbow, who will?

I once wrote an article about how Feeling Awkward™ is the job description of a missionary. But sometimes I’ve lived like my job description is to feel anxious.

I know, I know. Whenever Jesus and I hang out, He’s like, “Do not worry about tomorrow. Tomorrow will worry about itself.” And I’m like, “No problem, Jesus. I’m totally not doing that. I’m worrying about today, and next Tuesday, and three years from now, but tomorrow is absolutely off limits.”

And then Jesus is like, “I think we need to talk again.”

Two and a half years ago, I was at the peak of my “planning” prowess. I was spinning all the plates and getting my ducks in a row (ducks are surprisingly difficult to keep in order, particularly when you are already spinning plates).

And then I got actually sick. Like, worse than elbow itchiness.

Like, lie down on the floor in the middle of the night crying out in pain sick. Waking up your husband to pray for you sick. Remembering that your grandma died young of colon cancer sick. And no matter how many funny Dave Barry articles you read, it’s hard to laugh away the paranoia that comes from not knowing why you’re in pain all the time.

It was a journey. And the journey began, as so many do, on an airplane.

I was tasked with visiting a single female worker in a creative access location. We bought tickets. I packed my minimalist backpack, making sure to include my Airplane Preparedness Kit: warm socks for potential polar temperatures, wet wipes for potential pathogens on the arm rests, and headphones, so I could drown out the sound of my heart palpitations with Scripture songs.

It took several flights to get to The Location. My last flight was with a small national airline a friend of mine likes to call, “Maybe Airways.”

Anyway, there I was, boarding my plane, looking about 19 with my li’l backpack, even though I’d just turned 39. I walked to my seat, as one does, only to discover there was a guy lying across my seat with an IV going into his arm.

I looked at the stewardess, who was slamming shut various overhead compartments.

“Um?” I said.

“Sit down, we need to take off!”

“But my seat . . .” She waved her manicured hand around dismissively. “Just sit anywhere.” A burly guy whose broad shoulders needed their own seats motioned for me to sit by him.

So I did.

Then I put my elbows on my lap to try not to get into his personal space or let him into my personal space, while simultaneously avoiding making eye contact. Then I put in my headphones to begin my Flight Preparedness Ritual.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want . . . there is plenty of air in here . . . breathe, breathe . . .

He-makes-me-lie-down-in-green-pastures-He-restores-my-soul . . . I’m sure the pilots are not even a little bit inebriated, breathe . . .

It was a special time with me and God. A thing we do together relatively frequently. To my surprise, though, God actually interjected a comment into this little one-way conversation.

“The man next to you is safe.” I heard it in my heart, not my ears, but it was a very clear message.

“That’s nice, God. Though what I’d really like to hear is that the pilot is safe.”

Two more times the Lord said to me, “The man next to you is safe.” I accepted this. Relaxed a bit. I was just beginning to enjoy my soothing music when God spoke again.

“Wouldn’t you like to get rid of that anxiety?”

“Not to be disrespectful, Lord, but I’ve prayed about this a gazillion times already. You and I have been doing this anxiety thing for years, and I don’t let it slow me down anymore. I do it scared, etc. I’ve accepted my thorn in the flesh.”

“But wouldn’t you like Me to heal you?”

“Of course, God. But Your grace is sufficient, Your power is made perfect in weakness, etc.”

“But Perfect Love casts out fear.”

“Touché.”

“Is it possible that you think your worry is somehow keeping this plane in the air?” I froze. I looked up at the plastic ceiling. Suddenly, Jesus’ words came like a hurricane into my mind: “Who of you by worrying can add an hour to his life?”

It seemed absurd. My worrying had nothing to do with whether this airplane stayed up or fell down. That had to do with a bunch of physics diagrams I didn’t understand. My fear was just making the ride unpleasant. So why was I holding onto it?

“God, I’d give You my worry, but I’ve already tried so many times. Besides, I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to know how. You just have to know Me.”

“Okay, then. You can have my fear of flying.” I literally opened my hands toward the ceiling, hoping the burly Arab guy wouldn’t notice. And after fifteen years of enduring flight-related anxiety, I suddenly felt relaxed. Peace actually flooded my soul, just like the cliché says it does.

“Wow, Lord! You’ve truly delivered me from all my fears! How can I ever thank You?”

“Share Jesus with that man.”

The first words that came to my mind at that moment were “bait and switch.” I did, however, share Jesus with the big burly Arab man, and I went on to encourage my friend in her service. But it was while visiting her that I first took special notice of the discomfort in my abdomen.

Over the next several months, as I endured pain and underwent testing, I felt Jesus draw near. We faced the truth together: God is God and I am not. He is infinite, all-powerful, and all-loving. I am finite, mortal, and have just two hands and twenty-four hours a day with which to hold things. I have plans, but He has The Plan.

God doesn’t have to rest, but I do. I am unable to carry this world and its cares. I need to trade my self-made burden for the one Jesus designed for me to carry. I can easily take on too much, but He will never give me too much.

In the end, the enemy of medical normalcy in my life, was . . . cue the drumroll . . . gluten.

I’d always been the kind of person to say, “I’ll eat whatever,” when invited over. Now I am the kind of person who asks, “Is this popsicle gluten-free?” The doc says I’ll have to avoid it for the rest of my life, which is sad because I really liked bread. But I’ve been mostly pain-free for two years now, so it’s worth the sacrifice.

Here’s what I’ve learned: planning for the future, risk analysis, even feeling afraid are not wrong. But our bodies and minds can overreact to those things, just like they can to pollen, or pet cats, or pizza crust.

While there may not be a cure that will let me eat whatever I want, there is a way forward for me in freedom from anxiety. I know that because I’ve been on many flights since the day I agreed to let God handle my fear of flying. And, to His honor and glory, I am still free and at peace.

Worry sometimes shows up in other places, of course. Thankfully, I know exactly what to do when it does.

“Jesus? I think we need to talk again.”

10 Things Flying Taught Me About Missions

I love flying. It just doesn’t get old for me.

I’ve jumped the Pacific a bunch; I’ve skipped over the Atlantic a few times. I have my own license to fly small aircraft, but still, every time I fly I feel like a little kid who’s milk got spiked with espresso. Sometimes I’m afraid the other passengers are thinking, “Oh for crying out loud, this guy doesn’t get out much. He’s probably homeschooled.” They’d be partially correct, I guess.

I fight my kids for the window seat. I revel in the sensation of takeoff, the joy of punching through oppressive clouds to the open sky above. When we hit turbulence, I close my eyes (like I’m praying, ’cause that’s holy) and say a silent “Yeehaaaw!”

This article is my excuse to talk about aviation. Here’s what flying has taught me about missions. I’d love to hear from you too: what has flying taught you about missions?

1. Pre-flight inspections are a good idea. You don’t have to do a pre-flight inspection. You don’t have to make sure the navigational instruments work. You don’t have to make sure the tail’s still there. If you’re the pilot, you could just get in, start it up and go. And you might be fine. But, you might not.

In missions, it’s best to get some pre-field training. But you don’t have to. You might be fine without it and you might have a wonderful time. Or, you might miss the bird’s nest in the engine that’ll catch fire in a wee bit, or the water that’s in the gas tank, or the rudder that doesn’t work. Pre-flight inspections save lives. So does pre-field training.

Of course, even perfectly performed pre-flight inspections can’t erase all risk. Things might still go south, and an unforeseen mishap might still occur. But even so, there’s a reason most pilots do a pre-flight inspection and most organizations encourage pre-field training.

I should note here that if you’re in Southeast Asia, the bird’s nest might not be in the engine. It might be in the free canned beverage from the gas station. I was totally not expecting that.

2. Communication matters. In most small airports in America, radio communication is not required. That is, you don’t have to talk with anyone on the radio. You don’t even have to have a radio in the plane. But radio communication is strongly recommended.

Most pilots “self-report” their location and their intention, especially when operating close to an airport. They might say something like, “Cessna 63279, six miles east of the airport at 2,500 feet, inbound for landing on runway 18, planning to enter a left downwind.” It’s really cool how this works, ‘cause if everyone self-reports, all the pilots in the vicinity have a general idea of who’s where and what they’re planning to do.

Not talking is scary. One day I was in the pattern with several other aircraft, and we all knew where the other planes were, when a new plane cut right in front of me, preparing to land. He hadn’t communicated anything, and although he wasn’t breaking any rules, he wasn’t making anything safer. Nor was he making any friends.

In missions, it’s great when folks talk to each other. If no one else is there, fine, do your own thing, but still, flying solo without at least a few people aware of what you’re up to is dangerous.

Not to mix analogies or anything, but you might think you’re a lone wolf, taking care of yourself and your ministry, when in reality you might just be a lone wildebeest, separated from the herd, ready to provide a lion his lunch. (Yes, I realize that I’ve used the word wildebeest in a prior post. I like the animal. I want one.)

If there are other workers on the field already, talk with them. Where are they? What are they doing? What’s working? What’s not? You’re probably not the only person in the sky, so don’t act like it. Communicate. Failing to communicate endangers everyone.

3. One-uppers happen. If you fly a lot, you’ve got travel stories. Great and funny and crazy stories, like that one time when all your flights were on time, no one threw up, and everyone arrived fully rested and smiling. With perfect hair. Be careful though, ‘cause it’s hard to tell a travel story without someone needing to one-up it with a story of their own.

Do I really have to explain how this is like missions? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

Do yourself a favor and watch this four-minute clip by comedian Brian Regan. His phrases “me monster,” “lunar rover,” and “two wisdom tooth tale” have found their way into our family vernacular. This sketch is part of our family culture now; perhaps it could become part of yours too.

4. Landing is one of the most dangerous parts of flying. Taking off requires little skill. Basically, you just point the plane in the right direction and push “GO!” Landing, on the other hand, is a bit trickier. There’s a lot more stuff that can go sideways. Landing safely requires planning, careful implementation, and a soft touch.

It’s sort of like landing on “the field” and then landing back “home.” Both landings carry certain risks and should be approached and planned for with care.

Soft landings are the best, so find kind and good-hearted people. Hang out with them. Cry with them. And when you see the next plane coming in for a landing (whether abroad or in your passport country), do whatever you can to provide a soft landing.

5. Landing at a place is VERY different than flying over it. I’ve flown over a lot of countries that I’ve never been to. I was in their airspace, but I wasn’t really there. It’s different, you know. From way up high, the Rocky Mountains aren’t all that majestic, the Grand Canyon’s not that big, Siberia’s not too cold, and the Pacific Ocean is pretty manageable. But stop and stay a while, and things will shift.

Short-term workers need to remember this. Passing through a nation, tasting their foods, and hugging their kids is not the same as staying. I’m not saying it doesn’t have value, but short-termers must remember that being in a place for a week or even a month is sort of like performing a low-altitude flyover. You can take some cool pictures, but you can’t really understand what it’s like to live there.

That being said, long-termers can benefit from the unique vantage point of our short-term brothers and sisters. Long-termers can get bogged down in minutia and forget to come up for air from time to time. Hanging out with short-termers can reinvigorate and re-inspire. And remind.

I guess the main thing I’m saying is this: be aware of your altitude. If you’re just flying over, know what it is that you don’t know. And ask questions.

If you’ve been somewhere a long time, ask the short-termers to describe what things look like from their vantage point. Ask them about where they came from and where they’re going. The relationship can (and should) be very symbiotic.

6. Most (but not all) obstacles are on the map. So look at it. Radio towers, mountains, restricted airspace, etc., they’re all on the map. Pay attention. Learn from others. Learn the lay of the land.

Missionaries, learn from the old people (nationals and expats alike). They have experience that you need, and they’ve already paid for it! Remember, nothing is new under the sun. Most experienced people are happy to share their thoughts and opinions with interested parties and point out obstacles and hazards. No one likes to see a plane (or a missionary) crash and burn.

7. Don’t judge another passenger’s anxiety. On the same flight, excited travelers who’ve planned for and dreamed of the trip for years may be sitting right next to people who are absolutely dreading what awaits them on the tarmac. One traveler may be starting a grand adventure, while another deals with tremendous loss and many endings. A traveler’s anxiety isn’t necessarily correlated to the smoothness of the flight. Don’t judge. You don’t know the stories.

In missions, one person might really struggle with something that another person finds perfectly sublime. What stresses one might excite another. Be careful in the judging, because you just don’t know their story.

Stories are funky things, bleeding through pages of a life. When you see a person stressed or anxious, give them the benefit of the doubt; you don’t know what they left behind, and you don’t know what’s in store for them upon arrival. And often, neither do they.

8. The toilets are different. And they sometimes require, um, how shall we say, skill. And planning. Especially with small children.

9. You don’t always get to choose your travel buddies. Sometimes you get to choose whom you sit next to (and what they smell like), other times, not so much. If you can’t change it, just be glad you packed earplugs and smelling salts. And sedatives.

Sometimes you can choose where you sit, and whom you sit next to. If that’s the case, be bold. Choose. Sometimes things change en route, and you may need to ask to move seats. If you need to, and you can, do it. There’s nothing noble or especially holy about staying in a difficult situation that isn’t necessary.

10. Sometimes you lose stuff. While it’s true that you gain things by flying, you also lose stuff. Like luggage, or your temper, or your ability to answer simple questions such as “What day is it?” “What country am I in?” or “Whose kid is that?” Flying messes with your circadian rhythm, and if you’re blessed to have other forms of rhythm, flying will mess with those too. You lose all sorts of stuff when you fly; some of the stuff you get back, but some of it stays lost forever. Just.Like.Missions.

Maybe it’s innocence.

Or optimism.

Or the belief that this will be easy.

You might show up thinking that all foreign workers are pretty much perfect Christians, as if William Carey and Elisabeth Elliot had a bunch of children and named them all “Missionary.” Yeah, that assumption might get destroyed.

Most likely, you’ll lose a bit of ignorance, forever changing how you watch world news.

But loss isn’t the end of the story; God is, and He remains the Great Healer and Restorer. He is the Father who runs, shouting “We must celebrate! For what was once lost has now been found.” He is the God who sees what’s been lost, and cares. He is the God who is here. And there.

May the peace of God rest on His people.

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I can never escape from your Spirit! I can never get away from your presence!

If I go up to heaven, you are there; if I go down to the grave, you are there.

If I ride the wings of the morning, if I dwell by the farthest oceans, even there your hand will guide me, and your strength will support me.

I could ask the darkness to hide me and the light around me to become night—but even in darkness I cannot hide from you. To you the night shines as bright as day.

Darkness and light are the same to you.

Psalm 139:7-12