TRAVELING WITH PAUL

I’m writing at Cleveland Hopkins International airport—a strange place to be when one is heading to Ft. Lauderdale, FL, having arrived here from Washington Dulles International, having begun the day at the Johnstown, PA Regional Airport, with its five bleary-eyed employees. They are zig-zagging me across the country a few times before depositing me in the sun. It’s all fine. I’ll go anywhere. I like getting places, but the transit may be even better, attributable to anticipation.

I like everything about flying. It suits a guy whose realm is inherent anywhere but on the earth. Travel hubs slay my goose. (That’s a good thing, in case you didn't know.) I like airline wine and coffee, but I bring my own meat and cheese. Rebecca taught me about the meat and cheese.

I got a taste of celestial/terrestrial contrast a few hundred feet above the wastes of Northeast Ohio. Unfortunately, it was the snatching-away in reverse.

I forget that the sun is always shining. The amazing celestial ball never goes out. It only seems to when six or seven cloud layers protect us from its multi-faceted blessings, which some crazy people repel with sunscreen.

Descending into Cleveland from Washington was, as just suggested, the snatching away run backwards. We zipped along at 300 miles per hour for several miles just above a magnificent cloudbank resembling a white cotton candy wonderland, soon to disappear.   

“We have begun our descent into Cleveland.” Yeah, I’ll say. Closer and closer to the cloud carpet we descended, until finally we pierced it. I wondered how long until the gloom would overtake us. Well, gloom never takes too long. The light disappeared in gradients as the first turbulence struck. In about ten seconds, we had gone from heavenly glory to the gray industrial tundra of East Cleveland. Now I know how Lucifer must have felt.

My brother Paul

I do have a brother named Paul—the apostle Paul. Allow me to regress a bit. I spoke to Paul on the ascent out of D.C., once we’d gotten above the cloud ceiling there. (I know Paul is dead, but I pretended he wasn’t. I communed with his spirit, if you know what I mean.) I knew Paul would be happy with me. I was taking the same evangel he taught in Asia, Europe and Greece, to yet another American city. I said to myself, Here I go, Paul. Off again to herald the same message you heralded. You struggled to preserve it and pass it on, and see how you’ve succeeded! Two thousand years after unceremoniously leaving this poor planet, your words continue through the mouth and pen of a man on a ship of another kind, this one hurtling through the sky. I wish you could see how we travel now. The Internet would excite you as well; I’m sure you’d have a nifty website, although, like me, I bet you would have bailed from Facebook a while ago. Anyway, you’d be happy to know I desire to imitate you—your spirit, your purpose, your love for the saints—as you imitated Christ. Occasionally, I even succeed.

Ships of sea or air—what does it matter? Feet on the ground? Same deal. Either way, you go where the need is. From whence come invitations, toward there you go. Those who, on the other hand, shun you, just figure to yourself you’ll come back for them later—maybe way later. If any middle ground exists, you haven't written or spoken clearly enough. Called a deceiver, though true (2 Corinthians 6:8), the evangelist of the pure message of grace (the one that demolishes religion and human pride) seeks receptive ears, though he is not averse to brief incursions into the land of the deaf. Depending on where one seeks “Martin Zender” on the web, I am either God’s gift to humanity, or the devil incarnate. Here at the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, I am a passenger awaiting a flight to Ft. Lauderdale, Gate C-5.

"These are a few of my favorite things."

I love to whiz on jets. Some people avoid the lavatory at all costs, but to me it is spectacular—even special—to empty my bladder at 30,000 feet, while hurtling through the atmosphere at 500 miles per hour. My theory is, one may as well take advantage of some of the marvels of this life, before it’s too late.

Did Paul take arcing leaks off the bows of ships? I can’t see it any other way.   

© 2013 by Martin Zender