Whenever I see a plane, this unexplainable feeling fills my being. I imagine all of the people aboard and picture some of them peering outside their window. Are they coming to meet someone they love? Are they taking another tedious business trip? Are they filled with awe as they fly through the bodies of clouds? Do they wish they were somewhere else? I am reminded of the tightness in my chest as I flew over the ocean to London for the first time. The fear of the unknown as I looked below me at the huts and the orange glow of small fires burning in central Africa on the way to Joburg. Or the raging guilt in my chest as I flew away from the Warm Heart and the warm hearts I came to cherish. There are moments when my heart yearns so much for the dusty roads of Malawi, the smiles and giggles of my students, or for a hug from Carrie that I feel as though the fire in my heart could carry my feet there if I ran hard enough. Is this grievance coming from the knowledge that I may never set foot again on African soil? I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things. But there are a few things I know for sure. And one of those things is that my life is in the hands of my Abba Father and nothing in this life can remove me from His hold. No fault, no misstep, no airplane. Nothing. But I pray that these frequent moments of consuming aches and burnings in my heart will not fade with time. Because they make me feel so alive.
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