What's Up With The Guy in Row 15C?

I received an email this week from my good friend Scott.

Scott's the same age as my son and both of them have similar characteristics, two of them being a reserved outspokenness, more common sense than I ever had at that age, and a real desire to get to the heart of whatever issue they may have on their plate at whatever given moment. Neither of them are satisfied with easy answers and keep digging until they discover the truth. I'm like these two in some of those regards. I'm sometimes content to let the real truth of the matter be a matter of continual quest, weighing lots of things before I say I have something figured out. Scott and my son arrive at answers more quickly than I do and the more I'm around them I wonder if it's just an age thing. They both think quicker than I do probably because they're younger. Oh well, on with the story.

When Scott (not his real name by the way) comes home from school on break for the holidays, we usually get together over a pattie melt (him) and a grilled chicken sandwich (me) at a well established eatery here in town. I let the cole slaw pass and head for the cottage cheese, though. Calcium, you know.

We used to do these informal luncheon meetings at the upscale bagel shop here in town. Now, there's an idea: an upscale bagel shop (they have gourmet coffee, too). Actually, they have nothing anymore, having closed up shop last year. But, Scott and I are hopeful that someday they'll re-open; we have a table in a corner with a glass top and high counter chairs where we sit and discuss whatever happens to be left on our plate after the rest of the dishes are cleared away and we refill (for free) his water and my diet soda. We talk his academic year to date, politics, candidates running for office (or those who are thinking about it), Vietnam, Iraq, and guy stuff.

Oh, the email. . . .

He mentioned something in his note that sort of took me by surprise: he's just a little afraid of flying. I would never have guessed this, and I later while shaving I thought that since we've talked about just everything we had covered this at one time or another. I guess not. When it comes to air travel, I could imagine Scott just sauntering down the jet way, finding his seat, stowing his carry-on in the bin above, settling down, and napping en route. Not the case.

He's just like me - we tremble a little during take off but when crusing altitude is reached the beverage cart comes down the aisle with all the soft drinks and water you can drink for free and we're OK - for the most part. It helps me to look out the window and not wonder what the pilot is doing or why the plane is making a southerly, westerly, or whatever-the-direction turn. I don't look at the wings and I do not want to listen to transmissions from the cockpit with airline supplied headphones. It's neat to look out and wonder how many Wal-Marts you fly over, how many folks below are mowing their yards, going to school, or painting their bathrooms. In one trip you can fly over dozens of Culver's, Menard's (real men hang out there), Lowe's (the rest of the real men are there with their wives picking out paint and wallpaper); mail is being delivered, cars are being washed, and diapers being changed. And someone is laying in a hammock 30,000 feet below looking up and wondering where the plane I'm flying in is headed.

That part of Scott's life was a mystery to me until this week, and to tell you the truth, I'm glad he shared it. I guess it lets me know that all of us are struggling with something, some vexatious something that we know is more of an annoyance than anything else. Still, we find ourselves bedeviled with our humanity, at a loss to conquer all this stuff. Matter of fact, Scott said something along those lines a few sentences later, and it helped me deal with my phobia in a new way. For me, it's a control issue. For two hours I'm out of control of where I'm going, trusting someone I don't know from Colonel Sanders to take me to a destination I paid a hundred and something dollars to go to. I guess that's the essence of faith, whether we're flying or walking the earth below, trusting God to take us to an eventual destination we've never seen but believe exists.

Others are dealing with stuff as well. I'm looking around the plane wondering about the lady in 12A - she sits there reading the paper, I wonder if she had a fight with her husband this morning. What's her story? How about the businessman in first class 5B nursing a drink while going over the contents of an over-priced leather binder. What are his issues? Does he want to be on this flight to an appointment or home with the kids, or maybe raking the yard? How about the guy in row 15C? He keeps looking out the window, trying to peer straight down to see what he can see. I wonder if he's scared to death or glad to be flying? The pilot announced a few minutes ago that we were starting our slow descent into the city. Maybe he'll feel better when the plane is locked in final approach. Maybe he's scared to death to think about landing; are the engines going to reverse in time to keep the plane from crashing through a fence and into the parking lot of 31 Flavors?

We've all got a story, a tale to tell, problems to be resolved, and inner conflicts that aren't soothed with Haggen Daaz or Starbucks. But we do have each other and the familiarity and blessing of friendship. It's great to tell someone, "hey, this is my struggle, what do you think about it?"

Thanks, Scott, for sharing your journey. Next time you're home, let's wear our cowboy boots when we go for lunch. Maybe someone will think we're real kick-butt dudes and not wonder if we're afraid to fly.