Look Out, Don't Stare at the Stick.

by Lori Wilson

I was talking with a pilot today. The weather had forced him down, and he had to wait a day to get home. Instead of fuming over the delay, he found a local Catholic church with no line for confession and made the most of the time. As he talked about staying at peace with the wind, about not letting the delay decide his mood, I found myself back in the cockpit of a different plane, decades ago.

I was in tenth grade. My best friend's father owned a small two-person plane, and one day he asked if I wanted to go up with him. "Of course," I said. I already knew I'd love the feeling of being above the earth.

I climbed into the back seat. He sat up front. There was a stick in front of me, too, and he said, "Lori, don't touch that for now. Just enjoy the view." We lifted off from the long grassy stretch behind his house.

It was an amazing feeling, the wind moving past us, the ground falling away. And something else happened up there. The problems that had felt so large in my life suddenly looked very small against the grandeur of the earth spread out below me. We were flying over rural Michigan in early spring, square mile after square mile of fields waiting to be planted.

Then he said, "Okay, your turn. Grab the stick. Let's just go straight for a while."

I was stunned. "I can't do that. I don't know what I'm doing."

"I'm here," he said. "I'll guide you. I won't let you do anything that puts us, or the plane, at risk. Trust me."

I hesitated, said okay, and took hold of the stick. I held it as steady as I could, eyes locked on it, willing myself not to mess up.

Then I heard him say, "Look out. Don't stare at the stick. See what you're doing."

I looked up, and I was amazed all over again at what I saw, at what I was doing, at how it felt to be flying.

I think now of Peter, out on the water in the dark, the wind against him (Matthew 14:22-33). He has spent the night straining at the oars, getting nowhere, when he sees a figure walking toward the boat on top of the waves. He's terrified. It looks like a ghost. Then he hears a voice cut through the wind, "Take courage. It's me. Don't be afraid." And something in Peter, the same something in me that took hold of the stick, says, if it's really you, tell me to come. He has never walked on water. He has no idea what he's doing. But he climbs over the side anyway, eyes on Jesus, and for a few impossible steps, he walks.

I didn't hear two voices that day in the plane. I heard one. My friend's father's voice and God's voice, speaking the same words, though I didn't know it at the time. I'm here. I'll guide you. I won't let you do anything that puts you at risk. I only recognized, looking back, that it was Jesus all along, finding me the way he found Peter, through someone willing to say come to me before I trusted I could.

That voice has returned again and again since then. Every time I've stood at the edge of something new, wanting more education, more experience, more certainty before I leapt, I've heard it. The reminder that I'm not alone, that God is the companion flying with me, that I can trust myself a little more than I think I can, and that whatever happens, I'll be held, as long as I keep looking at him and not at the wind.

We flew for about ten minutes before he took the stick back and turned us toward home. Then he said, "Well, we won't be able to land at my place." The wind was too strong for the short descent he needed there, so he landed at a small airport a few miles off, and we walked the rest of the way to his house, talking.

I was never scared. Not once. When I got home, I ran to tell my mother what I'd done, and she went a little pale with worry. I just said, "I was totally fine. He wouldn't let anything bad happen to me. He's an experienced pilot. I trust him."

That's the invitation I keep coming back to. Trust myself. Trust God's companionship. Trust that the education and experience I already have are enough, and that if an invitation comes my way, it's probably from God and worth saying yes to.

For Your Reflection

• Where have you heard that soft voice of God saying, I've got you, it's going to be okay?

• What would it look like to trust that voice a little more?

• Where do you let fear, anxiety, or worry make your decisions for you, instead of taking a risk that might not be as risky as it feels?

• Was there a moment that you recognized a voice as God's voice only in looking back? What helped you see it later?

• What is God saying to you in this?

A Closing Prayer

God of perspective, Thank you for the view you gave me that day, flying. Help me let go of the worry that I'm not enough when I'm invited into something new. Help me believe in myself the way you already do. Help me trust that you are always with me. Help me trust the people you've placed in my life as gifts, as guides, as those who love and care for me. Amen.