Hello darling readers. Once again I have failed in my attempt to write for you at least once a week. I hope you can forgive me. One of these days perhaps I will make it up to you by writing quite a few blogs at once. Maybe.
Yesterday was Thanksgiving here in good ol' America, which means no school and I got to go home! So Tuesday evening I had a flight back to Chicago, and I was more than excited to get there. My roommate volunteered to drive me to the airport, so that morning I finished packing and was ready to go. Two and a half hours before I needed to leave I found out that a friend of mine also needed to go to the airport, much earlier than I, and her ride was stuck in traffic miles away. So my roommate agreed to drive her as well and we were off.
We arrived at the airport in perfect time for her flight, I waited at the gate with her for maybe ten minutes before her plane started boarding and she was gone. I checked the time. I had two hours and forty minutes in the airport before my flight. I wandered over to my gate and read while I watched several airplanes come and go. Just as I was beginning to feel antsy about sitting in that airport forever, a plane pulled up to our gate, and it was ours! Hooray! I fished out my boarding pass and waited for them to call for boarding. Ten minutes later, they did not call for boarding, but instead informed us that our flight was delayed by at least 20 minutes because our pilot wasn't here yet. Because I am an odd person, this was somewhat exciting to me. "Why, we already have a plane and our flight is delayed! How interesting!" And just as the novelty of waiting even longer for our flight started to wear off, our pilot arrived and we were called for boarding.
If any of you were on a plane Tuesday night and were mildly horrified as you watched a short little college student stand on the seat and tug a suitcase only slightly smaller than herself up to the overhead compartment while repeatedly refusing help from the taller and stronger flight attendants by insisting, "I've got it! It's so light!" Yep, that was me. For those of you who weren't there I assure you everyone was a tad bit horrified. Something about not wanting suitcases and little girls to fall on their heads.
The plane took off and I whipped out my crocheting and diligently worked on a new scarf for the entire flight (new you ask? Why, yes, dear reader, I finished the first scarf and have begun a new one! If you aren't sure I assure you this is an accomplishment of epic proportions), and pressed my face against the window as the pilot announced our descent into Chicago. We were home! As I stepped off the plane I nearly fainted with joy at the sight of Midway airport. It was so familiar, the seats, the tiles, the woman's voice over the intercom intoning a warning to all that the moving walkway is ending. That airport felt so strongly of home I had to fight the urge to simply sit down on the floor and soak up the Midway-ness of it all.
When I think about it, it of course seems a little odd that an airport would feel so strongly of home, but as a follower of Christ it definitely makes sense. In Hebrews 11, the writer talks about the amazing faith of some biblical persons, like Noah and Abraham. He goes on to say of them in Hebrews 11:15-16 "If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them." We, like Abraham, are on our way to a better city, we are not called to find a true home in this world. In a way, an airport is my truest home because it embodies transition, the willingness to leave one place for another. I want to be ready to pack my bags at the call of God, and to call transition my home.
Truly His,
Caroline
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