Flight to Bethlehem

I love to fly. The moment the sliding doors open in front of me at the airport, I feel like I’ve entered an entirely different world. Between those first smudged glass doors and the smiling, familiar faces that usually meet me at the end of my journey, I feel free to escape. I can be whoever I want—suddenly I’m on my very own set of Alias, and I am Sydney Bristow on my way to break into the Vatican. When I’m not Sydney, I can imagine equally far-fetched stories about all the people sitting around me, decide whether or not to make small talk with the older gentleman with kind eyes across from me, or even pretend that my music is too loud to hear the person beside me that just asked where I’m from. The only thing to give away my true identity is the ID I have to flash at all the security checkpoints. And I tuck that safely away in my back pocket at the first chance I get, so as not to blow my cover.

Not much can put a damper on my current mission to recover the missing artifact from the Vatican or the story I’ve conjured up about the mismatched couple sitting in front of me. That is except for the dreaded middle seat. That’s right, as I approached my seat in 7B I discovered that my worst fear was coming true—I was assigned a middle seat. My fate was sealed with one little letter on my boarding pass. For the next two hours, I would to be stuck in between a man who I can only assume is Hitler’s distance cousin and a man who just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Ugh! To make matters worse, the legroom must have been designed with a small child in mind.

So there I sat, stiff as an elementary student who is waiting on the bench outside of the principal’s office. As the flight attendant finished modeling the correct way to place an oxygen mask over your face (without damaging her hair sprayed 80s bangs), I knew only one thing was going to save this situation and get me back into “stealth mode.” Christmas music.

Nothing calms me down and warms my heart quite like Christmas music. I guess you could say I buy into Buddy the Elf’s rules: “The best way to bring Christmas cheer is to sing loud for all to hear.” I was afraid of what Hitler and Ralph would do to me if I literally started to sing out loud like Buddy, so I turned to my trusty iPod. With one push of that center button, I was transformed into my own winter wonderland.

Soon the deep, rich sound of Matthew Perryman Jones singing my favorite version of the carol O Holy Night was my own in-flight fireplace, warming me up and making me feel safe and cozy. Ralph (who was lucky enough to score an A--which equals window seat) was asleep, so I could safely gaze out the window at the twinkling glow below. Suddenly the nightlife beneath us was transformed from a bustling world that is full of worries and hardship into a peaceful night over 2000 years ago.

I gazed down on all the man-made lights and I couldn’t help but notice that they could almost be mistaken for actual stars. Suddenly we were flying upside down and the distant glow of the city ahead might as well have been the star of David. As I looked down (or was it up?) at the lights before me and imagined all the hurts and questions lingering above each person like the clouds we’d broken through on my last flight, I couldn’t stop thinking about these words from the song:

Long lay the world in sin and error pining.
Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

I listened to them over and over again until the cabin lights rudely brought me out of my daydream and I was forced to turn off my “electronic device.”

PEACE OF CHRIST is the only way to describe that divine night that I got stuck with 7B. Looking at the torn boarding pass in my jacket pocket, it still says Nashville to Boston, but I’m pretty sure somewhere in between the two cities we made a stop in Bethlehem.