Jesus once asked whether anybody had ever added a single hour to their life by worrying. Crickets. So he followed up: if we can't manage that little thing, why sweat the rest?
Good point. But in our defense, he never flew coach.
Picture a flight so long they actually serve dinner—not just a desiccated cookie and half a can of soda, but an almost-real meal. You're about to sample the mystery chicken when the plane hits turbulence. The seatbelt sign dings. The flight attendant sits down fast and buckles in tight. Her lips are moving. Wait. Is she praying?
So you do what any responsible adult would do. You grab the tray with one hand and the cup with the other, and for the next fifteen minutes you hang on like a sixteen-year-old gripping the wheel at ten and two on a driver's test. Somewhere deep down, you suspect that if you let go, the plane might go with it. It's the same instinct that has you stomping an imaginary brake pedal from the passenger seat. Nobody actually believes it works. Nobody's willing to stop, either.
Up front, a pilot you've never even seen is flying the plane with a cockpit full of instruments. Back in 18B, you're "helping."
Eventually the air smooths out. You release your death grip and lean back with the quiet pride of a job well done. Not one drop of ginger ale on the tray table. The pilot will never know how close it was, and frankly, that's the kind of humble servant you are.
A lot of us live in 18B. When we can't see who's flying, we start flying. We lie awake worrying over the kids, the bills and the noise the car started making on the freeway, and when things turn out fine, part of us suspects we had something to do with it. Why wouldn't we? Didn't we just bring a planeload of people home safely?
So we keep it up and call it caring. We even pray about it while sneaking another glance at the altimeter.
Jesus never flew coach, but he once slept through a storm in the back of a boat full of terrified fishermen who weren't sure he cared. He did. He just wasn't worried.
So hang on to your cup. It's your job to keep the ginger ale out of your lap. Let the pilot handle the rest, and when the wheels touch down, try not to take a bow.