We caught the early morning flight, 6:15, out of Lincoln, Nebraska. As our plane ascended, enveloped in the darkness, most passengers were sleeping with their window shades pulled down, ignoring the stewardess’s memorized flight instructions. The cabin lights were off. All was hushed.
I tried closing my eyes and dozing like everyone else. No success. Instead I fidgeted.
Maybe five minutes into the flight, I glanced out the window next to Lori. We were flying south, so I was looking west. I could tell the day was about to dawn. But all the shades on the opposite side of the aisle, facing east, were pulled down, blocking my view. This thought caused me to fidget more. The view from the plane would be stupendous, I imagined, with the sun peeking over the clouds.
The passenger across my aisle was fast asleep, his mouth gaping open, snoring. Would he notice if I reached across the aisle and opened his window shade? I envisioned him awakening, startled, crying out, and then the stewardess running down the aisle, grabbing me, mistakenly thinking I was attacking another passenger. I imagined Lester Holt on the evening news: “…meanwhile in other news, a Baptist preacher caused a flight delay when he allegedly attacked another passenger for… sleeping.”
I continued fidgeting.
Then the sleeping man woke up abruptly, having swallowed one of his snores. Opening his eyes, he appeared confused, as if he weren’t sure where he was, and cracked open his window shade. Behold: there it was: the rising sun.
But just as quickly as he had opened it, he slammed it shut. I thought I caught him glancing my way with a “nothing doing, buddy” smirk.
I was back to fidgeting.
Just four seats up, on the left, I saw a glimmer of hope. A young lady on the sunrise side of the aircraft had her shade up, reading, oblivious to the sunburst outside her window. Though the seat belt sign was still on, indicating we weren’t free to roam about the cabin, I could stand it no longer. Everyone except the lady four rows up was asleep, anyway. And so, unbuckling my seat belt, I sneaked to her open shade, and standing next to her, I stared out her window.
It took maybe 5 or 10 seconds before she was aware of my presence, so immersed was she in her laptop. With a gratitude wave, I backpedaled to my seat.
“What were you doing?” Lori asked, momentarily waking.
“Sneaking a peak at the rising sun.”
“Good Lord,” she murmured, closing her eyes again.
My little foray up the aisle had been worth it. The sun was shining over the clouds, like it was subduing them, igniting streaks of red and gold across the horizon, announcing the birth of a brand new day, reaching through the airplane’s window, wrapping me with a ribbon of its energy.
The phrase “it’s darkest before dawn” means that things always seem the worst right before they improve.
In his gospel, Matthew described the beginning of Jesus’ ministry like this: “The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light. And for those who lived in the land where death casts its shadow, a light has shined.”
But sometimes you have to go after it, not waiting on the Dawn to come to you, like the Greeks who showed up rather unannounced, asking Philip, one of Jesus’ disciples, to see Jesus. “Sir,” they said, “we would like to see Jesus” (John 12:21).
And when we do, when we are bold enough to seek Him, we sometimes discover He’s already there, waiting for us.
Settling in my seat, I closed my eyes and rested, content in knowing the light was shining. I was a part of the Lord’s New Day.