Notes from an Airport Pt. 2

A collection of stuff I wrote down through my recent trip to Utah...


I am caught up by the words, "And it came to pass"
The phrase is so widely used in scripture to start thoughts and transition between verses. Normally I just skim past it. But I realized that there is so much more meaning behind it.

It's simplicity reminds us that all things pass. Nothing is permanent unless we choose to make it seem that way. God extends His loving hands for us to use as both an anchor and a sail.
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A slim Asian man purrs and coos, his crying daughter resting against his shoulder. Her small hands wrap around his neck and meet at the foot of his balding head.
He is eternally patient, reassuring his restless child with a steady hand and fluid rocking motion. The window reflects a plane lifting off the runway from the other side of the terminal. He watches it glide softly through the air as the baby's cries subside.
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"When I was a child, my grandmother told me that the sky speaks to those who look and listen to it. She said, 'In the sky, there are always answers and explanations for everything; every pain, every suffering, joy, and confusion.' That night I wanted the sky to talk to me."
A Long Way Gone by Ishmael Beah
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Ether 2: 24
"For behold, ye shall be as a whale in the midst of the sea; for the mountain waves shall dash upon you. Nevertheless, I will bring you up again out of the depths of the sea; for the winds have gone forth out of my mouth, and also the drains and the floods have I sent forth."
-So much beauty...
Anchor and sail.
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I push my eye lids together with unrelenting force as the plane begins its climb into the sky. "Be Still, My Soul" rings clear above the boom of the engine. I open my eyes to see illuminated cityscapes. There is a patchwork quilt of crisscrossing streets and newly paved parking lots. The stars cry out in unison to an empty night sky and my mind can relate.
Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord.
A fierce winter storm throws punches on both sides of the plane. My eyes can't focus on the world below with the constant turbulence-the cityscapes become long exposure light trails as my head bobs against the plastic window.
When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
My heart leaps at the thought. My mind is no longer running. I close my eyes and see God's arm outstretched from the heavens. Worldy thoughts and desires fall with the heavy snow outside. I am with my Savior, limp in his eternal arms, my head resting on his shoulder.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
All safe and blessèd we shall meet at last.

My eyes open and I see.

Her eyes scanned the metallic door frames for a reason to turn back.
The spring-back woosh the doors make when someone walks in front of them cloud her mind from further thought. Suitcase in tow, she blindly goes where so many have gone before.

The illuminated flight numbers leave light shadows under her eyes. What would set her apart? How would she change anything?

The PA murmurs a flight change that echos against every wall in the terminal. It finds its way back to her ears and her eyes flicker with hopeful anticipation. The echo never seems to end as it dissolves into the masses of travelers.
Looking past the masses, a slow but steady best foot forward, she is taken aback by movement. She reels in her insecurities with the snap of the suitcase handle and lets the moving track take her to her destination.

Notes from an Airport

Airports are beautiful.
I've always been attracted to them. I think it's because of the commotion and excitement of it all. There are so many different kinds of people going so many different places. And I'll never get over the marvel of a plane lifting off into the sky. It's perfect, the weightlessness of the tires leaving the cracked runway.
Sitting in an airport terminal is a privilege. Not anyone can just walk into its glass barricades and sit in one of the many cheap pleather seats at each gate. You have to have a ticket. And with a buddy pass, you never know when you'll have the privilege of not making it on a flight, forced to sit in the tranquility of the busy terminal to people-watch.


The old airport attendants sit in abandoned wheelchairs talking sports and politics. Their graying hair compliments their formal navy blue vests and dress shirt uniform.
I go into the restroom and one of them follows me. He is humming loudly, occasionally voicing a few lyrics as he relieves himself. He's happy.
To spend my days in an airport terminal amongst the hustle and bustle and quiet interludes between flights. To see the faces and hear the voices of such a diverse array of people everyday.
I think the attendant is a lucky man.

Bukowski keeps me company. His terse prose shoves the truth down my throat as I sit among the blue collared works he speaks of while they're on the lunch breaks in the back of the terminal cafeteria. They sit in thinly padded seats, their neon uniforms as colorful as their language.

I'm slowly but surely becoming familiar with the faces of this place. As the janitors make their rounds, they notice me, also making my rounds. There is a moment of understanding. He knows I'm not just one of the others billowing past, blackberry attached to ear, lips sputtering words, eyes ignoring the multifarious enchantment of the passing travelers.