Getting There

My wife recently advised me to consider documenting some of the more significant moments of my life, so that our children will have a written account of their father's unusual existence.  And though her choice of the word 'unusual' caught me a little off guard, I'm sure that she was implying that my life is so very uniquely profound, it just wouldn't be fair to the rest of humanity to go unrecorded. Now when someone suggests that I ‘go ahead and do such and such to make sure it gets done before you die,’ I go into major procrastination mode.  Such reaction betrays my true conviction that by not planning for death, I will somehow delay its arrival and vice versa.  This time, however, I’ve decided to stare death in the face and make use of the time, abundant though I’m sure it to be.  So this next series of blogs is devoted to one of the most significant adventures of my life to date.

In my younger years, I was more adventurous than I am now.  Lately, it seems that if I catch a reprieve from work obligations, school board duties, church responsibilities and various family commitments, I am most likely to be found sitting on my couch hanging out with my children or watching TV.  I’m not sure if it’s my age or just a general feeling of fatigue, but lately, I’ve longed for few things more than a chance to lounge around on the couch.  This story, however, isn’t about my present condition, but rather a specific adventure I embarked upon as a young man.  It's the story of a 24 year old, single man who walked away from the security of a good job with a reputable company, as well as the comfort of life in the United States, and set out for Lausanne, Switzerland, for the purpose of becoming a missionary.   

I inherited a love for travel from my now deceased grandmother, who set foot in more countries than I could begin to count.  As a child, I was subjected to endless carousels of slides highlighting her journeys abroad, which forced me to become familiar with such faraway places as the Great Pyramids, Buckingham Palace and the Kremlin, to name a few.  And while I never fully appreciated the value of those low rez Kodaks projected in cruel fashion on the wall of my grandmother's den, I am no cognizant of the sacred exchange that took place during those moments.  My Nana was imparting to me a desire to experience the unfamiliar, and for that, I will forever be grateful.  It is this desire that propelled me into the strange and exciting world of foreign missions.  

I realize that the word 'missions' often evokes images of such places as Haiti, Nigeria or some other third world country.  Lausanne is hardly third world.  In fact, Switzerland is about as first world as they come.  But my quest to become a full-time missionary began with a 6 month Discipleship Training School (DTS) with an organization called Youth With A Mission (YWAM).  The school, by design, combines Bible based lecture with practical application in a foreign missions environment. So I figured if I was going to 'rough it' in a missions setting for 3 months, the least God could do for me was to let me spend the lecture portion of my school in a cushy Alpine setting. 

I well remember the day that I was escorted to the airport by my mom and my sis, bound for Lausanne.  It was an emotional moment for all of us, but especially so for them.  I am the baby of the family - the youngest of 7, and it's always hard sending a baby off to Europe for 6 months.  My flight was on Delta, and I was flying ‘standby’ on an employee buddy pass.  I was most excited about this, simply for the fact that buddy's get to sit in the front of the plane, if available.  In the days leading up to the trip, I had prayed desperately for a first class seat.  I reasoned that I must be worthy of such a prayer given the fact that I was sacrificially giving up my life to become a missionary - at least for the next 6 months.  As I awaited the final boarding call, the gate agent summoned me to the counter and told me that there was, in fact, one first class seat available.  My mom put her arm around me my shoulder and with tears in her eyes said, "God must be smiling on you!"  It was a watershed moment.  I was touched at both my Mom's tenderness, as well as the Lord's obvious interest in my travel comfort.  I then said my good-byes and turned to walk tearfully down the jet-way.  

I soon found myself in another world – no, not Switzerland - that would come later.  I entered the world of first class travel.  I pinched myself when I saw my seat.  It was truly a thing of beauty with its plush leather finish and more than enough butt room for me and a guest.  The instant my posterior touched down on the soft cushion, a flight attendant arrived to take my drink order.  As the throngs of coach customers pushed and shoved their way back to the cheap seats, I confidently ordered a glass of champagne.  "Champagne?" I thought to myself, "Who orders champagne on an airplane?"  Then it hit me - first class passengers - that's who.  I was then hit with the reality of the moment.  I was jet-setting.  I was bound for Europe - young, single and soon to be sipping champagne.  My mom’s words “God is smiling on you” were echoing about in the hollow confines of my brain.  No one knows for sure where the geographical 'top of the world' is, but I'm pretty sure I was there for brief, shining moment in first class. 

I then struck up a conversation with my seat neighbor who was Swiss.  I know this not just because he was well dressed, well groomed, and slightly effeminate (in an obvious heterosexual way), but because he told me so.  I don’t know what it is about the Swiss, but they just seem to ooze a sense of importance.  As we spoke of such things as first class travel and 'those poor schmucks in coach,' I began to swell with a sense of importance.  I'm not sure if the sense of importance had more to do with the seat or the fact that a Swiss person was giving me the time of day.  After all, the Swiss are important, and they don't just talk to anyone.  “My days of God not smiling on me are definitely in the past,” I thought to myself, as I reveled in my newfound sense of significance. 

My champagne soon arrived.  I discretely watched my new Swiss friend and made a mental note of how he held his plastic, Delta airlines champagne glass.  I mimicked his every move, holding my wrist at an awkward angle with my little finger slightly dangling off the stem of the glass and began to enjoy the sweet, alcoholic nectar of my first class experience.  After a couple of sips, the flight attendant returned.  “I’m sorry sir,” she began, and I, being full of a sense of self-importance, expected her to apologize for not being able to serve my filet mignon until we were airborne.  “You’re going to have to change seats,” she said, hardly apologetic.  “It seems that the ‘no-show’ has just checked in at the gate and there are no more available seats in first class.  You’ll have to sit in the back.”

In one cruel nanosecond, my first class house of cards came tumbling down around me.  Just like that,  I had been exposed as a fraud and demoted back to coach.  My uppity Swiss friend cut his eyes at me and sneered as if to say, “you don’t belong here.”  After only a few short moments at the top, I was now banished to relative exile.  I stood and reached into the overhead bin for my carry-on.  Once securely in my possession, I then reached for my glass of champagne.  The flight attendant stopped me and said, “I’m sorry sir.  Those are for first class passengers only.”

I then marched to coach like a prisoner headed for the Gulag.  I was told there were plenty of seats in coach.  There were, only they were all at the back of the plane.  The very back... of a 747.  Practically everyone was seated but me, so the whole plane watched in wonder as I was booted out of first class and condemned to coach.  Feeling a bit like Rosa Parks – although a much less stubborn Rosa Parks at best – I heard my mom’s words in my head again, only this time they rang with a certain air of sarcasm, “God is smiling on you, God is smiling on you.”

I eventually settled into a seat about 5 rows from the back of the plane.  As I asked God if the smile had turned into a frown, I soon realized that there was no one within spitting distance of me.  I ended up with the entire center row to myself.  I stretched out and slept soundly most of the way to Switzerland, dreaming of the adventure that awaited me.  Turns out, God had a funny way of smiling on me that night.

At baggage claim, I saw my Swiss friend.  I tried to tell him that I had a very comfortable trip over.  He refused to make eye contact with me.