As I settle down to type my monthly blog I hear an aeroplane droning overhead. My house used to be on a frequently used flight path to the old Durban airport, and so planes were frequent and familiar. Since we were blessed with a new airport, the frequency of overhead flights has diminished so much that when I hear a plane nowadays, I have to prevent myself from running outside, shouting "Plane! Plane!" to my three poodles. Until a grandchild arrives, I have to use my dogs as surrogates.
Hearing the plane caused me to think back to the days when claustrophobia was so intense that I would never have boarded a plane unless I was unconscious and carried on board. For those of you who have never suffered from this affliction, what you are about to read may seem like a flight of fancy, but believe me, it is genuine. My mother was so claustrophobic that she would rather walk up innumerable flights of stairs than get into a lift. Until I was delivered of this all-encompassing fear, I was exactly the same. Even after I was set free I was not fond of lifts. I still, to this day, enter a lift praying that it will stay relatively empty. The more people that crowd into a lift, the more I regret having got in first. I envision myself crouching at the open door as people enter the tiny cube that is your average lift. As each one enters, I estimate the capacity of his lungs, how much oxygen he will gulp, and how much space he will occupy. I read the sign informing the occupants as to the maximum number allowed, the maximum weight that is permitted, and then wonder why it is not compulsory to be counted and weighed as you enter. I think longingly of an authoritarian German woman of around sixty years of age, in uniform, in charge of my lift. "No! You veigh tooo mush! You vait for ze next lift, ja!" she would order, preventing some overly large person from getting in behind me, using up my allotment of oxygen, and filling up my space. Because God is very kind, I have never been trapped in a lift. I don't even want to think of this possibility, because it is not going to happen, but I have a really good plan for anyone who may find himself in this situation. Imagine you are the lift policeman. Authoritatively order everyone to sit down on the floor and stop moving unnecessarily. Forbid anyone from breathing too deeply. Then pray together without anyone moving their lips. See, I have thought this through.
Back to the subject of planes. It is astonishing to me, with my history of claustrophobia, to think of how much I have flown since becoming a Christian, and the variety of planes I have flown in. The most enjoyable has been flying business class in the new Airbus A380 and the new Boeing Dreamliner. Luxury abounds. Beds lie flat. Attendants are kind and generous to those who are not cramped in economy. Oh how I bless the brother who donated his air miles so I could upgrade, or the beloved friend who paid for me to fly to America in luxury. I will not continue along this vein, because I would not wish to cause anyone to stumble. But, my goodness, it is glorious. I have to realise, though, that if my plane were to crash into the ocean, we would all die! But while we are alive, I would rather be alive in business class than economy.
The worst experience was flying from Dallas to a country airport in Arkansas in a single-engined plane piloted by an elderly man whose drawl was so thick I could barely understand him. I loathed every minute of the flight there and back. I prayed throughout our five hour flight, and when he invited my friend, a young South African girl, to fly the plane, my prayers reached a fervency seldom attained. God heard me and we survived. We survived the return trip, even though our elderly pilot forgot to close the window on the passenger side until we reminded him. "Oops!" he said. "We wouldn't have gotten off the ground with that there window open." How very encouraging. About three years later he died of a heart attack. When I meet him in heaven I will thank him for the flights, but only politeness compelled me to utter insincere thanks at the time. I THINK I kissed the ground when we disembarked, but if I didn't, I know I wanted to.
I have had the joy of flying in a helicopter twice. The first time was in Los Angeles, where a dear friend paid for the two of us to go on a two hour flip over downtown Los Angeles, up and down the coastline, and into the hills near the Hollywood sign. We flew over the mansions of several famous sports and movie stars, but the one that stood out was the home of a basketball player. His shirt number was painted on the area near the house so that it could be read from the air.
The second helicopter flight was one of the most memorable things I have ever done. Thanks to a great servant of God, and the kindness of certain Israeli officials, we flew over the old city of Jerusalem, south to Masada and the Dead Sea, along the Jordan River, and landed in a field on a kibbutz. After a delectable lunch at the kibbutz we flew north and east, finally landing near Tel Aviv. Israel is a tiny country, but is loved by God and by those who love God. I still pinch myself at the memory of that trip.
The final experience that was out of the ordinary, was flying in a sea plane in the Maldives. These planes are known as Maldivian taxis. When I say taxi, think of a South African minibus taxi, or a New York yellow cab. Don't imagine a decorous London black cab. I viewed this air taxi with great trepidation. The pilots, for a start, do not wear shoes! Not even flip flops. I love going barefoot myself, but somehow it doesn't inspire much confidence to fly with barefooted pilots. Or is that only me? I begged to sit right behind the pilots because they flew with open windows, and my old need for oxygen re-surfaced. Once we had taxied along the ocean and taken off, circling round as we climbed, I decided that this was going to be one of my all-time favourite trips. We flew at no great height, so were able to see the glory that is the Maldives from the air. I can only describe these islands as magnificently beautiful. From the air they look like gemstones which have been scattered in the ocean. The gemstone is the dark green of the foliage. It is set in pure white sand. This is surrounded by translucent turquoise of the water inside the surrounding reef, and this, in turn, is surrounded by exquisite indigo blue of the deep ocean. These islands are very small in size, but they are numerous, and less than a hundred are resort islands. The air taxis are exactly that. Of the sixteen or so passengers on board, there may be five destinations to which they are headed. Each time a passenger is to disembark, the sea plane circles overhead, then comes skidding in on the water where the passenger is met by a speedboat sent out from the landing jetty. I was thrilled to find that ours was the last island to be visited. Instead of dreading the return trip to Male, where we would board a regular passenger plane, I was able to anticipate it with pleasure. It is not such fun when the weather is bad and the water is choppy, but let's not think about that.
Looking back on these experiences has been fun for me, but more than that, it has caused my heart to swell with gratitude. Up until I was 32 years of age, I was so bound by fear, among a host of other emotional bondages, that my life was confined in every way. At that age I became a Christian, and everything in my life changed. The fact that I still struggled off and on with claustrophobia does not negate the rest of what Jesus did in my life. Every addiction was broken, the confining walls were broken down, and four months later I flew off to America to attend Bible College. I have been flying ever since. It is a large part of my life, and I love to travel. The bible says that God gives us RICHLY all things to ENJOY. When people think Christianity is boring it is only because they have not had the joy of meeting Jesus for themselves. "Boring" is not in my vocabulary when it comes to describing my life as a Christian. I really pray that you find that out for yourself.
Till next month, God bless. Fiona
Hearing the plane caused me to think back to the days when claustrophobia was so intense that I would never have boarded a plane unless I was unconscious and carried on board. For those of you who have never suffered from this affliction, what you are about to read may seem like a flight of fancy, but believe me, it is genuine. My mother was so claustrophobic that she would rather walk up innumerable flights of stairs than get into a lift. Until I was delivered of this all-encompassing fear, I was exactly the same. Even after I was set free I was not fond of lifts. I still, to this day, enter a lift praying that it will stay relatively empty. The more people that crowd into a lift, the more I regret having got in first. I envision myself crouching at the open door as people enter the tiny cube that is your average lift. As each one enters, I estimate the capacity of his lungs, how much oxygen he will gulp, and how much space he will occupy. I read the sign informing the occupants as to the maximum number allowed, the maximum weight that is permitted, and then wonder why it is not compulsory to be counted and weighed as you enter. I think longingly of an authoritarian German woman of around sixty years of age, in uniform, in charge of my lift. "No! You veigh tooo mush! You vait for ze next lift, ja!" she would order, preventing some overly large person from getting in behind me, using up my allotment of oxygen, and filling up my space. Because God is very kind, I have never been trapped in a lift. I don't even want to think of this possibility, because it is not going to happen, but I have a really good plan for anyone who may find himself in this situation. Imagine you are the lift policeman. Authoritatively order everyone to sit down on the floor and stop moving unnecessarily. Forbid anyone from breathing too deeply. Then pray together without anyone moving their lips. See, I have thought this through.
Back to the subject of planes. It is astonishing to me, with my history of claustrophobia, to think of how much I have flown since becoming a Christian, and the variety of planes I have flown in. The most enjoyable has been flying business class in the new Airbus A380 and the new Boeing Dreamliner. Luxury abounds. Beds lie flat. Attendants are kind and generous to those who are not cramped in economy. Oh how I bless the brother who donated his air miles so I could upgrade, or the beloved friend who paid for me to fly to America in luxury. I will not continue along this vein, because I would not wish to cause anyone to stumble. But, my goodness, it is glorious. I have to realise, though, that if my plane were to crash into the ocean, we would all die! But while we are alive, I would rather be alive in business class than economy.
The worst experience was flying from Dallas to a country airport in Arkansas in a single-engined plane piloted by an elderly man whose drawl was so thick I could barely understand him. I loathed every minute of the flight there and back. I prayed throughout our five hour flight, and when he invited my friend, a young South African girl, to fly the plane, my prayers reached a fervency seldom attained. God heard me and we survived. We survived the return trip, even though our elderly pilot forgot to close the window on the passenger side until we reminded him. "Oops!" he said. "We wouldn't have gotten off the ground with that there window open." How very encouraging. About three years later he died of a heart attack. When I meet him in heaven I will thank him for the flights, but only politeness compelled me to utter insincere thanks at the time. I THINK I kissed the ground when we disembarked, but if I didn't, I know I wanted to.
I have had the joy of flying in a helicopter twice. The first time was in Los Angeles, where a dear friend paid for the two of us to go on a two hour flip over downtown Los Angeles, up and down the coastline, and into the hills near the Hollywood sign. We flew over the mansions of several famous sports and movie stars, but the one that stood out was the home of a basketball player. His shirt number was painted on the area near the house so that it could be read from the air.
The second helicopter flight was one of the most memorable things I have ever done. Thanks to a great servant of God, and the kindness of certain Israeli officials, we flew over the old city of Jerusalem, south to Masada and the Dead Sea, along the Jordan River, and landed in a field on a kibbutz. After a delectable lunch at the kibbutz we flew north and east, finally landing near Tel Aviv. Israel is a tiny country, but is loved by God and by those who love God. I still pinch myself at the memory of that trip.
The final experience that was out of the ordinary, was flying in a sea plane in the Maldives. These planes are known as Maldivian taxis. When I say taxi, think of a South African minibus taxi, or a New York yellow cab. Don't imagine a decorous London black cab. I viewed this air taxi with great trepidation. The pilots, for a start, do not wear shoes! Not even flip flops. I love going barefoot myself, but somehow it doesn't inspire much confidence to fly with barefooted pilots. Or is that only me? I begged to sit right behind the pilots because they flew with open windows, and my old need for oxygen re-surfaced. Once we had taxied along the ocean and taken off, circling round as we climbed, I decided that this was going to be one of my all-time favourite trips. We flew at no great height, so were able to see the glory that is the Maldives from the air. I can only describe these islands as magnificently beautiful. From the air they look like gemstones which have been scattered in the ocean. The gemstone is the dark green of the foliage. It is set in pure white sand. This is surrounded by translucent turquoise of the water inside the surrounding reef, and this, in turn, is surrounded by exquisite indigo blue of the deep ocean. These islands are very small in size, but they are numerous, and less than a hundred are resort islands. The air taxis are exactly that. Of the sixteen or so passengers on board, there may be five destinations to which they are headed. Each time a passenger is to disembark, the sea plane circles overhead, then comes skidding in on the water where the passenger is met by a speedboat sent out from the landing jetty. I was thrilled to find that ours was the last island to be visited. Instead of dreading the return trip to Male, where we would board a regular passenger plane, I was able to anticipate it with pleasure. It is not such fun when the weather is bad and the water is choppy, but let's not think about that.
Looking back on these experiences has been fun for me, but more than that, it has caused my heart to swell with gratitude. Up until I was 32 years of age, I was so bound by fear, among a host of other emotional bondages, that my life was confined in every way. At that age I became a Christian, and everything in my life changed. The fact that I still struggled off and on with claustrophobia does not negate the rest of what Jesus did in my life. Every addiction was broken, the confining walls were broken down, and four months later I flew off to America to attend Bible College. I have been flying ever since. It is a large part of my life, and I love to travel. The bible says that God gives us RICHLY all things to ENJOY. When people think Christianity is boring it is only because they have not had the joy of meeting Jesus for themselves. "Boring" is not in my vocabulary when it comes to describing my life as a Christian. I really pray that you find that out for yourself.
Till next month, God bless. Fiona
Once again a fabulous, thought provoking blog
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