Just inside the door was a guest book inviting those who entered to sign and leave a note if they wished. Flipping through the pages I remembered why DFW is one of the world’s busiest airports. There were signatures from all over the globe.

Abu Dhabi. France. South Africa. Japan. Guatemala. China. And exotic places like Indiana, Iowa and South Dakota. Beside the name and address line was a space for people to leave a message. The notes inked on the page reminded me that wherever we live on the planet, life happens. Sometimes good and sometimes painful, but life happens everywhere.

Someone in Arkansas asked prayer for their Dad’s health. A passenger from Texas wanted prayer for success in their new job. A man from Cleveland, Ohio asked people to pray for wisdom and guidance. A Mom in Michigan asked people to pray for her son’s safety as a police officer. A woman from Wisconsin wrote joyfully with an exclamation point that she was off to a mission trip in China. “Christ Is King!”, she said.

A wife in Michigan wrote, “Please pray for my husband and father-in-law as they both deploy to Iraq on September 2nd. Oh, and for fertility issues.”

Sometimes life doesn’t just happen. Sometimes it piles on.

A mom from Texas used a black ball point pen to write, “My son drowned in a river in New Hampshire. I’ve just come back from seeing the river.” Peeking out from underneath the 3-ring binder was a copy of the eulogy handed out at her son’s funeral. His picture on the front and his life summed up on a single page. A twenty-something kid who made his living designing and making costumes for Shakespearean theaters around the country. 

Airlines take us places and airlines bring us home again. I wish it were as easy to lose our grief as it is for them to lose our luggage.

The last person to sign was a man from Israel. He said simply, “Thanks for providing a place of prayer.” I flipped back through the pages one more time, glancing at the names and addresses and requests. Men and women, a sampling of humanity across the globe, intersecting here in this international airport. Each stopping in this chapel long enough to pray and jot a brief request in hopes that someone might talk to God for them about the life that’s happening in their corner of the world.

I said a prayer for each and added my name to the list. Turning to leave, I thought about the people who might find their way to this room after my plane was gone. Is there a message I’d like to leave them?

Life’s a real head banger no matter where we live. What keeps any of us going? Only the thought that there has to be a purpose behind the pain. That somehow God, in spite of what we see, knows what He’s doing. On my worst days, that can be a stretch to believe. On my better days, my faith sees dimly. Thankfully, God’s faithfulness isn’t dependent on how my day is going.

I wrote to encourage myself as much as anyone else.

“Hold tight to your faith…God can be trusted.”

“Let us hold fast to the confession of our hope without wavering, for He (God) who promised is faithful.” - Hebrews 10:23

- Todd Thompson    www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“No.” She pulled her arms in a bit and gathered her purse closer to her.

Thanks to the “print your boarding pass the day before” option at Southwest Airlines I was in the “A” group. Which means I was at the front of the cattle call free for all in finding a seat on this flight from Las Vegas to Lubbock. If you’re ever unsure about which gate for a flight to Texas, you just look for the one with the most cowboy hats.

Two rows over a young 20-something couple were sleeping upright, using each other for a pillow. Her head on his shoulder, nuzzled in so tight all you could see were cheek and chin. To my left and down a bit a large woman on her cell phone, laughing so hard and so loud that she was wheezing. Directly in front of me a nervous man in a western shirt, Levi’s, boots and a cowboy hat, fumbling with his Bluetooth ear piece as he tried to make appointments. “Is that better? Can you hear me now?”

However old the silver haired lady was, she dressed young. A snappy black and white outfit and burgundy polish on her toes and fingers. She had a firm grip on the boarding pass, her thumb covering her last name. The first name read “Melba”.

Sometimes I read and keep to myself. Sometimes I like to see what I can learn from a stranger by asking questions. I had a couple good books in my briefcase. But then again, when would I see Melba again to ask her anything?

It’s now or never.

“So are you living here and going someplace else? Or live someplace else and visit here?”

She said, “Just here to see my granddaughter. I’m going back to Ft. Worth today. I live there. Have to drive to Dallas to catch the plane but I leave my car at a friend’s house so it’s pretty easy. I live alone but I’m fit and active and want to be on my own as long as I can.”

“So does living in Texas mean you have to be a Cowboys fan?”, I asked. She looked too smart to be a Cowboys fan but every person has their weakness.

“Let me tell you, football is my sport. The Cowboys, the college teams. I love it. I went to the University of Oklahoma so I really follow the Sooners. That’s where I met my husband. He was a World War II veteran.”

“So were three of my great uncles. Did you ever read Tom Brokaw’s book, “The Greatest Generation”?

“I love Tom Brokaw,” she fairly beamed. “I think he’s the man.”

“Well, I think he’s a little full of himself, but that sure was a good book he wrote.”

She bristled a little at that. But even Tom Brokaw’s mother thinks he’s full of himself.

“So where did your husband serve during the war?”

“In the South Pacific. Saipan. Gaudalcanal. He was a nurse in the Army. He wanted to be a doctor but ended up going into the service when the war broke out. When it was over and he came home, he wasn’t able to pursue medical school. So he went into sales. And he was darn good at it. Made a good living selling air conditioning systems for the big office buildings. We were very happy. We had a vacation house on the lake. It was the best time to have our family and friends there. A lovely place.”

Her eyes looked up to the ceiling for a moment. Remembering, I think, the lake. And him.

“We cooked these big meals and sat around the table together with everyone. What a wonderful place that was.”

“Do you still go there?”

“I sold it after my husband passed away. Couldn’t keep up with it anymore. And it just wasn’t the same.” She sounded wistful. Like seller’s remorse.

“I’ve had a good life. Great family and friends. And lots of wonderful memories.”

Perhaps remembering she was talking with a stranger she collected herself, smoothed a wrinkle on her sleeve. Then looking me in the eye she reflected with sober certainty, “Memories. At my age you live on a lot of memories.”

Memories.

You have to make them before you can live on them. God-willing I live as long as Melba, I want a lot of memories to live on. Living life in the moment, making memories on purpose rather than by chance is the only way to do that.

The nervous man had managed to set a couple appointments while trying to get his Bluetooth to work. The large woman was still on her phone, but breathing normally now. The young couple woke and stretched, him wandering off in search of a restroom or a coffee. And me and Melba, boarding passes in hand, waiting for our plane.

Just thirty minutes at the Las Vegas airport on a Thursday morning.

Memory made.

“Memories are times that we borrow, to spend when we get to tomorrow.” – Paul Anka

We were on the ground in Albuquerque last Monday night, waiting for passengers to board for the next leg to Phoenix. A few minutes earlier we were in the clouds, a 737 jet being bounced around like a ping pong ball in a lottery machine.

Looking out the window all you could see was gray sky pressing its face against the glass. The plane lurched up and diagonally, then a sudden drop that made you glad for the seatbelt. Bump, bump, big bump, huge bump, lurch. Then the back end of the plane jerking to the right, like a cat’s toy ball would feel when batted across the floor.

Except for the commuter flight I once had in a 17-passenger turbo prop during a thunderstorm that threw the ice out of my glass, this was the worst I’ve ever experienced.

A white haired elderly lady in the row ahead of me was quite frightened. From her thick accent, she sounded Russian. She was squeezing the arm of the female stranger next to her and a 40-something man across the aisle was trying to talk her into a happy place. “This is just like deep sea fishing. Come to think of it, that’s no fun either. But don’t worry, we’ll be on the ground soon.”

All I could think was that after this flight, all the rides at Disneyland won’t be fun anymore.

In the middle of the turbulence I noticed myself gripping the arm rests and bracing my foot against the metal base of the seat in front of me.

Then I thought about what I was doing. 

Steadying oneself while walking on the ground has some merit. Out for a stroll and hit a patch of rough sidewalk? Grabbing for a street sign or an oak tree makes sense. Keeps you from falling down.

Steadying oneself in a plane? Doesn’t make much sense, does it?

A firm grip on the arm rests and bracing with both feet while riding in an aluminum tube at 500 miles per hour 30,000 feet above the ground is, at best, a good isometric exercise. It won’t smooth the ride and it sure won’t help if the plane crashes.

The obvious truth in that moment was that there was only one person with any control over the outcome. It’s all up to the skill and experience of the pilot. As he goes, so goes the flight. That’s why airlines require a high standard when entrusting the person in the cockpit with the safety of hundreds of passengers.

We live in a rough and tumble world. Our best efforts to smooth the bumps with our jobs and our education and good planning help some. But turbulence is inevitable. And bracing ourselves against it won’t spare us from being knocked around. In the middle of it there’s only One with ultimate control.

Thankfully, God can be trusted to get us through. We may look every bit like a storm tossed mess on the other side, but we’ll have been brought through. Bedraggled and soaking wet maybe. Hopefully stronger. But through.

From Albuquerque to Phoenix there was another patch of bumpy air. This time I crossed my arms, relaxed my legs and resisted the urge to brace myself. It didn’t make it smoother, but why worry about something I can’t control, right?

Right.

Then I laughed at myself. Hard. Because I have a PhD in worrying about what I can’t control.

Oh well. At least I gave up being a control freak for 50 minutes. That’s pretty good for me.

Actually, it might be a personal record.

It’s a new week. Fasten your seatbelts. Enjoy the ride.

“Now this is what the Lord says…Fear not, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze. For I am the Lord your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior…” – Isaiah 43:1-3 

Finally, we get off the ground. The Dad and Mom decide to switch places. He’s holding the boy and from my vantage point all I can see are two little legs sticking out into the aisle, flailing and kicking.

Then the little guy loses it. He freaks out. He red lines his volume. And that’s when it all breaks loose.

Mr. Wall Street Journal spins his head toward the Dad, “Can’t you keep that kid quiet??!!” The Dad exercises enormous restraint, “I’m doing the best I can!” Mr. Wall Street Journal then says a little too loudly to no one in particular and everyone in general, “I didn’t pay for a ticket to listen to this all the way home!” and in the same instant slams his fist into the back of the seat in front of him where the little boy’s Mom is sitting. He hits it hard enough to break the latch on the tray table so it won’t stay in its locked and upright position.

Ever experience one of those flashpoint situations where everything happens at once?

In the microsecond after the passengers realize what has happened, public opinion swings 180 degrees in favor of the little guy. They turn on Mr. Wall Street Journal like a pack of wild dogs. They yell and hiss and in short order make him wish he would have rented a car to get home.

Then something wonderful happens. A kind, wonderful, spontaneous thing that changes the entire atmosphere on the plane. Rolling like a wave from the front to the back, over the top of the seats all you can see are hands filled with bounty from purses and tote bags and backpacks, passed from one row to the next. In less than a minute the Dad’s lap is overflowing with stuffed animals, candy and toys.

Thankfully, a few minutes later, the little guy falls asleep.

Kindness. It transformed the atmosphere on that plane from hostility to peace.

Whatever shape it takes and however it’s offered, kindness has the power to transform. A harsh and angry attitude can be calmed with kind words. A closed and fearful heart can learn to trust when surrounded with kindness. Kindness helps welcome new folks into the neighborhood. Kindness helps dispel our fears. Kindness gives people the courage to try again. Kindness helps people out of awkward situations. Kindness paves the way for reconciliation.

Perhaps kindness is transforming because it’s so surprising. We live in a reciprocal world. Be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Be mean to me and I’ll be mean to you. That’s why kindness is often unexpected. It catches people off guard.

This idea of transforming kindness was God’s idea. God is not reciprocal with us. In our faults and failures, God responds with kindness. God is kind toward sinners, which is to say God is kind to me and to you. (Romans 2:4; Ephesians 2:7) That’s certainly a surprise when we’re expecting to be punished. He desires that you and I extend the same kindness to those around us.

Do something wonderful today. Go surprise some people.

Be kind.

“…clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity.” – Colossians 3:12-14

Plopping down with my briefcase next to me, I chugged some of my Coke and bit into my cookie. A Ghirardelli chocolate chip fell to the floor. About .42 worth, I estimated. Oh, well. I’ve had chocolate chip cookies before, but how many opportunities will I have to eat one in the Omaha airport? Even ordinary moments only come around once. I took another bite and leaned back to look around. There were the usual newspapers with fingers peeking around the edges, gate agents fielding questions about departure times, and a few tired travelers like myself with $5.80 expressions on their faces.

You might say I heard the thunder before I saw the storm. “C’mon! Let’s go!” Headed my direction, darting through people and Samsonite suitcases as big as himself was a brown haired, three year old tornado in a jean jacket. “C’mon, Dad!”, he yelled to the grown up bouncing along behind him like a guy being walked by a Great Dane. The kid was on a mission, whatever it was.

It was in the days pre-9/11 when you could meet your party at the gate. They stopped in front of Gate 20. “Is that the plane?”, the son wanted to know. “No, not that one. Mommy’s plane isn’t here yet. Pretty soon.” He heard his Dad’s answer but just to be certain he asked about every plane he could see through the giant glass windows overlooking the runway. After about 10 minutes, which feels like forever to a small boy waiting for his Mom, an America West plane docked at the jet way. “Is that the one?”, he squealed. Dad, anticipating a breakaway attempt,  slowly and gently firmed his grip on his son’s little shoulders before answering. “That’s the one!”

Ever try to hold a tornado by the collar?

Passengers began filtering off the aircraft, slowly at first then en mass. The small one’s mission had just been elevated  to red alert status. I watched his eyes perform rapid fire reconnaissance on every face coming through the door. He knew who he was looking for and when he finally made a positive ID there was no holding him back. “Mommy!” Using a masterful “squirm and sprint” technique, he left Dad grabbing the air. Mom, too, heard her little thunder before she saw him and smiled at the thought. As if knowing he would find her, she dropped to one knee just in time to be hit with a flying hug that almost knocked her over.

After welcome home kisses, the three of them walked toward baggage claim. They had  traveled only a few feet when the tornado fell back a few steps behind his parents. Like a wide receiver in motion he ran past his Mom, tagging her on the leg as he blazed by, laughing hysterically. Mom laughed, too, and catching up to her son tagged him back before running on ahead. Their jubilant game continued all the way down the concourse until they were out of sight.

I looked around the way one does just after they’ve seen a shooting star. We want to know if anyone else saw the same streak across the sky. About 20 feet away, in front of me and to my right, sat a businessman dressed to the nines. Soft leather briefcase and overcoat, silk tie, Italian leather shoes, and a suit that was definitely not off the rack. If it was Gucci, he carried or wore it. Certainly he had to have seen what I saw. But he hadn’t. His nose was buried in a book. When I walked by to throw away my empty Coke cup I looked to see what he was reading. It was a self-help selection from the airport newsstand on how to get more out of life.

I felt sorry for Mr. Gucci. He was busy searching a paperback theory for wisdom on how to get more out of life and missed the living, breathing, whirling cyclone of joy that danced right past him. Tempted though I was, to judge him was to judge myself. How many times have I been reading about life instead of living it? How often have my eyes been open to my book and blind to God’s blessings?

The businessman and I had something in common, I decided. We both paid too much for what we bought at the airport that afternoon. Still, even at .42 per chocolate chip I think I got the better deal. That 3′ dynamo who laughed loud and hugged hard saved me a future fortune at the bookstore.

Airport layovers. Diet Cokes. Chocolate chips.  Little boy laughter.

Even ordinary moments only come around once.

An elderly woman took a seat nearby. It was obvious from the style of her clothes she wasn’t from Minnesota. I’m no fashion expert, but her long black dress appeared African or Middle Eastern. Large airports daily welcome international travelers. A person from another country is a common sight. Yet this person looked like a stranger in a strange place. She held her belongings close to her and tightly clutched her tickets as she stared at the scrolling red message board above the gate entry.

She looked my direction. I smiled at her and she smiled back. She held out her ticket, pointed to it and looked at me as though she wanted help. The ticket said she was on the same flight that I was on to Phoenix. But she didn’t speak English and I had no clue as to what she wanted, other than it was obvious that she was nervous and even a bit scared. I felt for her, but with the language barrier I was helpless.

About that time I noticed two sharply dressed African-American women watching us from their position in the duty free shop. They made a beeline in our direction. They blew past me as if I wasn’t there. One sat on either side of this elderly women and began excitedly chattering to her in a language I had never heard before. The old woman’s face lit up like Christmas in New York when she heard these two speaking her language. The three of them talked easily, like old friends, for 20 minutes.

When I sensed a break in their conversation I tapped one of the ladies on the shoulder and asked, “Do you know her?”

“No. But she’s from our country.”

“How can you tell?”

“By the way she’s dressed.”

I asked what country. “Eritrea.” Admittedly, my knowledge of world geography isn’t what it should be. But I had never heard of Eritrea. The lady informed me it had been part of Ethiopia but was now its own country.

Feeling ignorant and intrigued, I did some schooling when I got back home. Eritrea is a tiny country that for many years was part of Ethiopia in northeastern Africa. Originally settled by Italy several hundred years ago, Ethiopia colonized the area in 1952 and in 1962 forcibly annexed Eritrea. That sparked 30 years of civil war, culminating in Eritrea establishing its independence in 1991.

Eritrea has a population of about 3.4 million people. Ravaged by a long war, they are struggling to rebuild their infrastructure. Life there is much different than we know it. There isn’t a single cell phone in the entire country. For those precious few who have computers, only one Internet service provider. Their per capita annual income is $750. By comparison and perspective, the per capita income of the United States in 1999 was $25,518.

The gross national product of Eritrea is $760 million dollars. By comparison and perspective, in 1998 Americans spent $6.3 billion dollars on video games. That’s billion with a capital Nintendo.

We could spend all day flashing statistics verifying what we already know. The United States of America is the wealthiest country in the world. The money we spend on one form of leisure activity is more than the GNP of many Third World countries. The fact that we even have a category called “leisure activities” or “discretionary income” is proof enough that we are blessed with incredible, and to the rest of the world, unbelievable wealth.

Often, conversations about comparable wealth end up with one side making the argument that there is such a thing as having too much money. Those of a socialistic persuasion who believe the answer is to make everyone equal with regard to money might find it interesting that God doesn’t put a salary cap on earnings. Nowhere in the Bible does He say, “This much is too much.” King Solomon was wisest and wealthiest man who ever walked the planet. Solomon’s wealth would make Bill Gates’ Microsoft look like a struggling lemonade stand.

Free market capitalists who believe that the correct economic answer is the creation and preservation of wealth might find it interesting that while God doesn’t put a salary cap on earnings, He does hold everyone accountable for how they use their money. God seems to care more about our attitude toward money than how much or little we have. In God’s eyes, there is no such thing as insignificant income.

The first rule of money is as simple as it is true: God Owns It All. Solomon may have been a king, but when it came to money he was never an owner. He was always a manager. The same is true for you and I. Never an owner, always a manager. If we possess much, we don’t have the luxury of frivolous spending. If we have relatively little, we aren’t absolved from managing it wisely. God cares more about our attitude toward money than how much we have in our bank account.

Something I need to remember on this money making Monday morning.

“The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it; for He founded it upon the seas and established it upon the waters.” – Psalm 24:1-2