The aircraft gave a sudden shudder, and the gentleman beside me stopped complaining about the quality of his sandwich and started examining the quality of his relationship with God.
Amazing what a little turbulence can do to a man’s priorities.
A minute earlier, he wanted to know why the airline had given him only one sachet of ketchup. Now he appeared willing to donate his entire sandwich to charity, provided we landed.
I understood him perfectly. When a plane begins behaving like an autorickshaw on a Mumbai road, even the most sophisticated passenger starts looking for something solid to hold.
Usually, the armrest.
Occasionally, somebody else’s wife.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” came the pilot’s calm voice, “we are passing through some turbulence. Please remain seated with your seat belts fastened.”
There was something reassuring about that voice. Here was a man who had spent thousands of hours flying through conditions that had reduced my vocabulary to, “Oh God!”
He understood the skies. He knew his aircraft. And the aircraft itself had been designed and tested to withstand far more than the bumps currently rearranging my internal organs.
The turbulence continued.
Yet something inside me settled.
And that was when the thought struck me. Peace of mind did not require the aircraft to stop shaking.
It required me to trust the one flying it.
How often we imagine peace as a life in which nothing goes wrong. The medical report is perfect. The children are sensible. The bank balance is healthy. The housing society committee has suddenly discovered honesty.
In other words, we are waiting for conditions that may require an entirely new planet.
Meanwhile, we tell ourselves, “Once this problem is over, I shall be peaceful.”
But problems have relatives. Before one leaves, it invites three cousins to stay.
Perhaps peace needs a sturdier foundation than favourable circumstances.
Perhaps it grows when we remember who has brought us through before.
That illness we thought we could never endure. That disappointment we were certain would finish us. That frightening season when we could see no way forward, yet somehow found enough strength for the next day.
We would never have chosen those storms. But looking back, we discover that our trust has acquired a history.
We have been frightened before. We have also been carried through.
For me, that is where faith enters. I can tell God I am scared without assuming He has abandoned the cockpit.
I can fasten my seat belt, do what wisdom requires, and leave the flying to Him.
The gentleman beside me eventually resumed eating his sandwich.
“Still no extra ketchup,” he muttered.
Clearly, his confidence had returned.
Mine had grown too. The skies had taught me something I hoped to remember on the ground: with every storm weathered, trust could deepen, and peace could grow.
I still prefer smooth flights, of course. Faith has improved my perspective, but I have yet to request turbulence when booking a ticket.
Still, when the next storm comes, I shall remember the Pilot..!