So, there I was, strapped into seat 46A, my boarding pass still crumpled in my fist, and a packet of peanuts unopened in my lap—not because I don’t like peanuts, but because the moment the plane began to taxi, I found myself whispering, “Don’t take off… please, don’t take off!”
Yes, dear reader, the once upon a time most thrilling part of flying—that majestic, roaring, adrenaline-pumped push into the sky—has now become a collective panic attack on wheels, after that tragic Ahmedabad crash.
Take-off, once a symbol of going places (both literally and metaphorically), now has passengers clenching armrests, muttering prayers in every language known to mankind, and looking suspiciously at the wings—as if they’ll sprout arms and wave goodbye just before the engines fail.
Twice in the last one week I’ve been airborne, and each time, just as the pilot announced “Ready for take-off!” and we lifted off, I half-expected fellow passengers including petrified me, to shout, “Wait, let’s just roll along the runway for a while! Feels safer!”
And in my very vivid, very caffeinated imagination, I see the pilot respond:
“Ladies and gentlemen, should we take off or shall we taxi around the airport for three hours? Coffee and samosas on the house!”
And the entire plane roars in approval:
“No take-off! Just cruise the tarmac!”
But here’s the rub—without take-off, you never fly.
Without flight, you never soar.
Without soaring, you never land somewhere new.
Let’s be honest—life’s a bit like sitting on a runway. You can stay there forever, safe and grounded, with all four wheels on the asphalt and a window view of terminal buildings. But you won’t go anywhere.
And just like planes, we need something called thrust.
It’s not just about speed—it’s determination, purpose, trust. It’s saying, “I’ve done my checks, I know the risks, I’ve stored enough faith in my engine—now let’s get airborne.”
The Israelites in the Bible had their own airport drama. They stood at the edge of Canaan with God saying, “Take off now!” and the people saying, “Um, we saw some giants down there… and they don’t look very friendly.”
So, they stayed grounded. For forty years.
And that, dear reader, is the tragedy of never taking off—not a crash, but a stagnation. A lifetime spent on the runway.
So, the next time you feel fear holding you back—whether it’s a new job, a bold idea, or just speaking up at a meeting—remember: like a plane you are built to fly, not stagnate.
Fuel yourself with faith. Line up on that runway.
And when life calls out “Ready for take-off!”—don’t shout “Don’t take off!”
Instead, whisper to yourself, “My trust in God, is my thrust!”
And soar…!bobsbanter@gmail.com