My luggage slammed against the well-worn pavement. The handle on my suitcase snapped into place. As I pulled my possessions, I could hear the small wheels spinning along the sidewalk. Vehicles rushed in. Passengers emerged from car doors. I was in the middle of this pandemonium of flux. Voices rang over loud speakers. People stood in lines of make-shift labyrinths wrapping in and around corners. Cell phones embraced ears. Fingers danced upon keypads.
Destinations have always been an intrigue. A travel document with my name of it makes me a recipient to transience. I have lived the life of a vagabond even though I reside in the comforts of suburbia. Airports become that mechanism, a mosaic of strangers by which we share a commonality regardless of nationality, belief systems, or indifference. Airports are hubs of limbo transitioning us to localities; people; and dreams.
I never thought the day would come. I didn’t think my life would amount to anything. Looking back, it has been an autobiographical blessing. There are those who argue that my life is what it is because of me – my will power, my optimistic fervor, that determination. Some herald me a hero, resigning what has happened as a tragic mishap due to unfortunate circumstances. I have been labeled their inspiration. I don’t want such a responsibility. I would fail if you knew my inner workings. I struggle with depression. I am lonely. Sometimes, I want to quit. No… this is God’s story.
With that said, speaking was not on my to-do list before I died. I used to cry when talking in front of a group. Now, airports are like reporting to an office. Traveling is protocol, a commonplace. It is neither here nor there. Conversations get stirred. In random fashion, I remember when a baby caused me to crack a smile while tears trickled down my face upon reading a book. And I wonder how he is doing, or what she is up to, though I talked to them for not even an hour on the airplane – and that just once. I travel nationally as well as internationally speaking about my story of brokenness.
Life is a series of segues. We have a ticket in hand that grants us access to a destination. Unlike the transactions we are privy to purchasing, this one is free – yet it seeks all we have. Our ultimate destination is Heaven, of course, but currently we wrestle with neither here nor there.
My desire is that these autobiographical segments, which may or may not be in chronological order, will be an encouragement for your own series of segues that weave the tapestry of your life. As we contemplate our place, my hope is that it will further your questions, deepen a faith in Jesus Christ.
What are we doing with that ticket in hand? Am I making the most of every opportunity?