Strangers on a Plane

Just waiting in the terminal of Ronald Reagan National, I knew this was going to be a full flight.  People juggling carry-ons and small children jostled to the queue, checking and re-checking tickets for boarding numbers, making hurried last minute calls, and generally ignoring the attendant with the neon pink tags searching for volunteers to gate check luggage.  I was headed home from a long weekend visiting friends that had just welcomed home their adorable fourth baby.  The weight of the long-distance friendship had started weighing me down during the stop and go drive to the airport, and I hadn’t been able to completely shake the hollow ache that always accompanied saying goodbye.  I was distracted in my thoughts, wondering why God would bless me with a friendship that was such a perfect match then separate us by the width of the entire country.

In my preoccupation I almost didn’t notice him.

He stood casually, leaning on the handle of his rolling luggage.  His dress was somewhat eclectic, but in the way of someone naturally stylish where patterns and textures blend effortlessly.  His skin was a milk chocolate with a caramel undertone.  I caught myself staring and looked away; there was something beautiful about his face.  He was relaxed and carried an air of confidence that marked him in my mind as a seasoned traveler.  I noticed a black nylon instrument case in his hand as, finally, zone three was called to begin boarding.  I was curious for a moment about what type of instrument could be in the case, as it was obviously too small to be the typical guitar case I was familiar with, and began speculating on the chance that he may be famous.  This was quickly dismissed in the bustle of scanning tickets and inching down the walkway, then the aisle, then searching for overhead space.

I was traveling with a good friend and as we found our seats I chivalrously offered to take the middle seat since she was pregnant and would be more comfortable with easy access to the bathroom for the long flight.  Also, because I was feeling guilty that she graciously squeezed in the back of the minivan between two booster seats all weekend to accommodate my unrelenting car-sickness.

I scanned the rows attempting to ascertain who would be my other traveling partner, selfishly hoping it was not the mom with a small child on her lap.  I know, I’m a horrible hypocrite.  I was ready to be home with my four littles, but I was also planning on savoring my last hours in the grown up world by enjoying some uninterrupted reading, possibly paired with a glass of wine.

I was relieved to see it was my musician “friend” from the terminal.  We smiled awkwardly as I sat next to him.  I fished my Kindle from the bottom of my bag and settled in for the next five hours.  The book I had been reading was called Start by Jon Acuff  and I was finding it to be an excellent resource for practically pursuing the dreams I have in my heart.  The man next to me was watching his movie and laughing out loud, which I found a bit disconcerting.  Who laughs out loud when they’re surrounded by strangers on a plane?

Typically when I read all sense of time flies out of my mind, and were it not for the stiff ache in my muscles that craved movement, I would not have realized it was the last hour of this flight.  I was finishing a chapter entitled “Guiding” that was deeply resonating.  I have long felt that the key to pursuing our purposes must be rooted in our investment in the people around us, not solely self focused.  I was experiencing one of those glorious moments that the written word speaks to me, personally.  Jon Acuff claims, “…in order to really believe it’s not all about you, you have to believe that everyone is more interesting than you.  The person who cleans your room at a hotel, the guy next to you in traffic, the businessman who sits next to you on a plane.  Everyone.”  I cast a sideways glance at my musician friend who is now flipping through Sky Mall.  I wonder, again, what his story is.

The curiosity simmers on the back burner of my mind as I continue to enjoy my book for another ten minutes.  I read, “If you’ll ask people a question, more often than not they’ll tell you a story that will blow you away or make you laugh or cry or a million other things.”  Am I supposed to talk to this guy?!  My pulse quickens in anxiety at the prospect.  I decide the inevitable social awkwardness is not worth the risk and read on, only to find, “More often than not whether it’s a conversation on a plane with a stranger you’ll never see again or a coworker you’ve seen for years, that question you ask will begin a conversation. … Ask one person one question.”

My heart is racing and my palms are sweating now.  I’m a bit of an introvert, and small talk is not one of my gifts.  I’m fine once the conversation gains trajectory to a specific topic, but any moment before that holds the possibility of being an all out awkward-fest.  With my pulse beating in my ears I turn and ask my one, deeply meaningful, question, “So, are you from Salt Lake?”  He looks at me blankly and then pulls out his earbuds.  (How did I not notice the earbuds?!  The perfect excuse to avoid all this was plugged in his ears!)

“Pardon?”

“Oh, I was just asking if you were from Salt Lake?” I mumble with an apologetic shrug. I can feel my face getting hot.

“No.”

Then, total silence with both of us awkwardly avoiding eye contact.  This may have been the Superbowl of awkward.  Lord, You’re going to have to give me more to work with than that!  Please, Lord, I wouldn’t even be doing this but I’m pretty sure You wanted me to… (Because, you know, He kind of owed me for pushing me into this–and once again He spares me the smote-ing I deserve.)

“I’m living in Seattle…” My fellow traveler mercifully continued.  I remarked on his heavy accent and, within moments of listening, realized I am talking to one of the most interesting people I have ever met (thanks, Jon Acuff).  It was an unexpected pleasure diving into a life so drastically outside anything I would have imagined for him.

I wrestled with writing everything he told me, but the more I wrote in detail of our conversation, the more I felt it a violation of some sort of unspoken agreement we had made.  He had pulled back the curtains on the window of his life and invited me to glance at the room within.  It feels rude to assume that was a moment to invite others to share.  I’m reminded that I’m his stranger-on-a-plane-never-to-be-seen-again, as he was mine.

What I will share is that he was a soldier before he played saxophone professionally, has traveled all over the world, is fluent in at least three languages, and is a part of a close knit community of people who have all immigrated from the same small country in East Africa.

He gave me a unique gift in that last half hour before our descent into Salt Lake.  I was able to glimpse my own culture through the eyes of a man not innately immersed in American ways. He found our lack of community shocking; people don’t know, let alone look out for, their neighbors!  It broke my heart to hear him tell about “the talk” the members of their community are given before coming to the US.  Do not approach your neighbors.  Do not physically embrace anyone.  Do not assume you can freely share your life.  Basically, do not live the neighborly, community-oriented life of which you are accustomed.  He tenderly described his impoverished, war-ridden homeland as, “What we lack, we make up for in love.”

I am deeply thankful for my country and, especially as an introvert, I cherish the privacy it affords.  Never before, though, did I consider that the ramifications of my right to privacy could reap isolation for others.  Who in my possible sphere of influence am I overlooking in my zealous avoidance of social awkwardness?

We land and I wish my new friend good luck as he sprints to make his connection.  In the airport, in a moment of spiritual clarity, I look up and am startled to realize I am surrounded by the embodiment of thousands of divergent stories milling around me.  I feel overwhelmed, insignificant, powerless to engage the silent status quo, and a deep yearning to speak hope and love to the lonely.

With emotion too deep to entirely express, or process, I send up my prayer in an exasperated sigh.

And I am reminded, “Ask one person one question.”

“A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another. By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”  (John 13:34-35, ESV) 

 

 

Are you willing to put yourself out of your comfort zone a little and ask one person one question?  Let me know what you learned!