It is December 26, and I am at the airport—along with my eight million closest friends, give or take. I am part of the human mass traveling for the holidays.
Like most of the other people in the airport today, I am flying because I am a relational human being, and relationships require tending. They are renewed by touch, and by smell. As nice as it is to zoom, text, and call, nothing reinforces our connections to friends and family like a kiss and a strong hug that says you really mean it. Nothing can replace sitting down next to someone you love, putting your hand on their knee, looking them in the eye and saying, “I know, but how are you really?”
Some conversations can only happen face-to-face, over a leisurely meal or walk, and with no place to go, or nothing else to do.
So, we back up our suitcases, put on our big girl pants, and travel.
And, if you are like me, you people-watch.
Boarding my first flight this morning I saw one of the familiar holiday travel tropes: the long-distance handoff of a child from one parent to another. The telltale signs can’t be missed: the underage child boards before everyone else, with last-minute instructions from the parent. After the flight attendant secures the paperwork, there is one last quick kiss and a long final look down the gangway until there is nothing left to see.
I observe this ritual with interest, but sometimes it is hard to decipher the emotions. Does the child go with reluctance, or eager anticipation? Does the parent left behind feel a bit of relief or aching loneliness? And who is waiting for the child at the other end? What are the feelings there?
I suppose there are some people who observe this interaction and find it terribly sad, and maybe it is. I try not to make assumptions.
My parents separated when I was in middle school and divorced a few years later, and once the initial shock wore off—probably unavoidable in the situation—it was quickly apparent how much happier everyone was.
My father found his life partner, and I gained a wonderful bonus mom, although it took a few years for that relationship to develop. My mother realized how great life could be without having to please anyone but herself, and she developed a robust network of friends and an active social life. And my brother and I were able to exhale, free from the tension that a heavy cloud of unhappiness brings.
Through the years, both of them remained very civil, and never put my brother and me in the middle; everyone remained in Denver, and while doubling holidays was sometimes complicated, everybody was present at all the important milestones. We knew we were loved, no matter what.
But, ultimately, relationship decisions are always hard, and I’ve made too many of my own mistakes to second-guess anyone else’s decisions. I hope those children get where they are going safely, and that they make good holiday memories.
Looking around, I also notice a much higher percentage of little children flying, too, and I imagine eager grandparents anxiously waiting at the other end; but again, maybe that’s a projection. Maybe instead what I am seeing are the relieved faces of parents who are traveling back to the familiar comforts of home, with normal bedtimes and a set meal schedule.
A smiling mother just got off the plane with her daughter on a pretty pink leash. I’m sympathetic to this mother. I’m quite certain if leashes on children had been a thing when I was a girl, my mother would have had one on me for sure. I was a runner.
Grandparents are traveling, too, which means wheelchairs. I think of my mother, and try to be patient. Mostly I fail. I am not a patient traveler, in a large part because I am always waiting for the other shoe to fall, and things to get complicated. You only need to fly one time to experience that a system set to maximize profit and volume, with paper-thin margins for error, has inherent challenges.
And yet, not being together is not an option—at least, not for me.
So, here I am, standing in line, watching and waiting for the ok to board.
The second shoe does fall, in the form of a mechanical issue, delay, and gate/plane change. About an hour late, I finally settle into my seat and sigh.
Once in the air, I take a moment to look out the window: a thick blanket of clouds hides the ground, and reflects bright sunshine and blue sky. I feel a little ashamed of myself that I have not manifested a stronger sense of gratitude that I can fly—and in just a few hours, I will be with my mother, and my brother, and my best friend.
Merry Christmas.
Happy Lutheran 