AT THE NEWARK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

I am at the Newark International Airport, across the river from New York City. I flew here from Pittsburgh on the way to Las Vegas; it seems I am going in the wrong direction. Awaiting takeoff, I shared this sentiment with a friend via text, who answered: “Sometimes we go the wrong way before we fly right.”

Ain’t that the truth. I can see how United Airlines has become an imitator of God (Ephesians 5:1). Have you ever known God to steer you as the crow flies? God invented the crow just to show us how things aren’t going to go. (Unfortunately, Satan invented “The Shortest Distance Between Two Points” concept. Another name for it is: “Wide is the Way That Leads to Destruction.”)

Apparently, God despises the great Eisenhower Highway System of Life. He’s into the two-lane ribbons of asphalt meandering around mountains, along fence posts, and through towns that suffer blackouts when someone trips over the extension cord. Forget convenience stores, or their fast-food equivalents. He’ll stop you for lunch at Ma Cooper’s Country Diner and force people you’ve never heard of to tell you more things than you ever wanted to know. And yet, somehow—in spite of spending $3.50 for the breakfast special (including orange juice)—you leave richer than when you came.

Sometimes God goes off-road completely, into the pines and plains, where the deer and the antelope play—before pooping on your shoes. (Oh, speaking of shoes, I’ve got to find some professional here who can improve the looks of mine.)

I realize now how used I’ve become to the lively buzz at the Pilkington home. The hive-like activity there has saved me. I used to think I liked working alone, in a booth, in the back, in a corner, in the dark. Not anymore. I need the warmth and sound of loving people working hard—and simultaneously laughing about something.  

Ever since bicycling alone across the United States in 1980, I have been comfortable with my own company. But that was before two families got pulled out from under me. It’s harder now to be alone. Doable, but harder. I’m a much keener observer of people. This, I suppose, makes up for the lack of company. I try to find a shred of fellowship on the people-movers at airports. Or at the luggage carousel. Or on the bus between terminals A and C.

Clyde and Janet drove me the two hours to Pittsburgh. I give thanks to God for the buffer they provided between the buzzing hive, and seat 14B.

I bought them breakfast at a Bob Evans a few miles from the Pittsburgh airport.

Part of me isn’t perfectly right yet. Rebecca was supposed to be on all these trips with me. God has to remind me that I’m whole, and I am; I’ve always tried to believe God; He’s smarter than me. I’ve always been whole, and even sometimes “a hole.” But two wholes make—what? A super-whole? A circus act? A baby? A disaster? A chapter in life? A memory? A scar? A Hippocratic-type oath to never do harm? A promise? A broken promise? A new dream? A future diamond in the aquarium? A green, leafy salad? A dark Hershey bar at the Hudson News Stand in Newark? The promise of new friends in Las Vegas?

All of life is not knowing. I just don’t know. All I know is what I know, which is truth. All I know is that I am destined to be spent for the sake of truth. Some of it will be enjoyable, much of it will destroy nerves and mitochondria. All I know is that I am called—and so is the guy picking me up at the airport in Las Vegas, seven hours from now. All I know is that God ordained this moment before there was this moment, as well as the millions of moments coming down the pike. Me? I’m merely discovering the moments on the pike—the Pike of Life. And here in Newark, New Jersey, that seems just fine.

For now. 

© 2012 by Martin Zender