Open for Business

Expecting something significant from an in-flight conversation with a complete stranger these days is like believing there’s still a worthy prize at the bottom of that Cracker Jack box. Spoiler alert: the prize is a sticker. Not even a temporary tattoo. #lame

Although. Sometimes. Or in my case, maybe just this one time.

All. that. changed. At least for the moment.

The box opened. And the prize was staring me right in the face. Smiling like an old friend. In the face of a stranger – a sister I was soon to meet.

On my first leg of the flight back home, I plowed through a couple chapters of American Church History and worked through drafts of a wedding sermon. But on the second, as I was just about to board, something my pastor said a few weeks before came to mind:

“No matter where you are, no matter what you’re doing, if you’ll just say this little sentence, God will put people around you that need to experience his love:

‘Father, right now, I’m open for business.’

So there I am: 4:25pm on a Thursday evening. Boarding a plane in DFW. And the faintest whisper of a prayer coming out of my mouth as I walk to my seat. Open. For. Business.

A woman sits down next to me. Pretty, polite, put together. I smile.

Say hello.

My book sitting there in my seat pocket. But I wait. For just a beat. Just in case God’s got something in mind. I’m open to remaining open. At least for a moment.

She begins a conversation. And then we’re off.

She’s a pharmaceutical saleswoman. Interviewing for a job in Dallas. A mother. Has a 17-year-old girl in Little Rock. Her daughter’s high school’s playing my alma mater in a football game that night.

I’m in seminary. Wife. Three kids. A dog. We just moved away. Living in California. But coming home for a wedding. Excited to see family. Friends. Hasn’t been an easy transition, but it’s felt right. “Know what I mean?”

She’s unsure about her job. She’d prayed for God to lead her in the job she has now. And he did. But it’s been nothing but a challenge. And she lies in bed each night wondering if she’s missing out on what God has for her life. “I don’t wanna get to the end of my life and realize I’ve missed out on God’s purpose for my life. Know what I mean?”

I do. I tell her the seminary decision was brutal. Long, drawn out. Challenging. Soaked in prayer. But terrifying in the midst of all the uncertainty. “I don’t know where this story is going,” I tell her. “But I’m just trying to be open to his leading. To trust the Writer and his steady hand.”

She stops me. “You’re a writer”, she says. “God has that on you. I can see it.”

Silence. I’m dumbfounded. “You a prophet?” I ask, with a big grin.

“Oh I can prophesy to others all day!” she answers. “Just not to myself!”

She continues to open up. Fears, hurts. Questions about God. Questions about herself. Passing parental wisdom to me – a fellow parent. One who’ll have a 17-year-old daughter one day too. “You just wanna do all you can to release that girl to the world. And feel like you’ve done your job well.” Throwing in nuggets of hope and truth. All amidst her own doubts. Her own inability to just fall in the Father’s arms.

I tell her how my daughter acted as an infant sometimes. She’d get over-tired and work herself into a manic frenzy. All she needed was rest — to surrender. But all she’d do is kick and cry and scream and shout. At 2 in the morning. And so I’d go in there. And just hold her. Face the persistent resistance. And not let go. Firm. Secure. Against my chest. Letting the steady beat of my heart serve as the metronome for hers. And finally. After long enough. She’d ease. Her breathe soft and sweet. Her heart at rest once again. Asleep. In her father’s arms.

She looks out the window for a while. The world flying below. Darkness creeping into the sky. A thousand lights crawling in a thousand directions. No answers to all her questions. But a peace patiently passing through. Like the whisps of the clouds.

We talk about David. His ability to lay his heart bare in the Psalms. Putting it all out there. The good, the bad, and the ugly. But all of it was all of him. And that’s all our God asks for.

The plane lands. I put my arm around her. And we pray. Right there in row 24. As everyone else is in that wild hustle and bustle to hurry up and stand still.

“God, as my sister here goes to bed tonight, may you take her worries and hold on to ‘em. May she fall into her Father’s arms. And may she feel your embrace tonight. May it be tangible. May you be real. And may she know how much you love her.”

Amen.

“You’re all right with me,” she says. “And as you go home to see your family tonight, you give your mama a big hug. And tell her that one is from Fancy Nancy. And that if for no other reason, you had to go all the way out to California to fly back home on this plane. Right here next to me.”

I smile. She smiles. We walk off the plane. And hug.

Like a couple of old friends.

A brother. And a sister.

A son’s whisper of a prayer while boarding a plane.

A daughter’s delight to hurry home — to rest in her Father’s arms.