Despite the fatigue-inducing hassle that often comes with flying, there's a moment on each flight that makes air travel magical.
I don't think I've been on a flight yet where the moment wasn't there.
Right after the fasten seatbelt light is turned on for the last time, tray tables and seat backs are at their full and upright position, everyone is quite. Their electronics are off, their eyes are reopened, and they sit quietly with their stranger-turned-neighbor and stare out the tiny oval windows that run the length of the plane.
Yesterday the afternoon sun lit up our faces and made dancing patterns on the overhead bins as the airplane turned and the angle of the light shifted.
It's such a quiet moment. Maybe it's anticipation to be some place new, or a thoughtful time to regroup and ready yourself for home.
But it feels like group extra-spection. As you see the tiny roads and rivers carve out forests and cities, and the patchwork geometry of agriculture unfolds below, I know that I can't feel a little smaller, a little more like I'm just one tiny piece of something so big and so beautiful. It feels like the plane load of passengers is held in a collective awe of what we just did—spanned a continent in a few hours—and in collective awe of how beautiful the world is.
I'm not sure how God wouldn't cross your mind in a moment like that. I thought about Him, and said a thankful prayer as we touched down on the runway.