If you see me on a plane, buy me a drink.

You would think that how often I travel as of late would make me a better flyer.
A braver flyer.

I know the quickest routes to the parking lot in LAX and the bathroom with the shortest line in the Portland airport (right past the gift shops, by the way). I mouth along with the flight attendant as she explains how to get to the emergency exit rows. I have my packing down to a science, enabling myelf to bypass baggage fees. I'm a pro. I don't travel far, but frequently. But no. I am a coward. My heart races while others comfortably recline their seats and flip through magazines as the plane taxis. I scan the passengers, wondering if there's a flight marshal on board. If there is even the slightest bump of turbulence, agonizing terror washes over me as I wait for the pilot to tell us we're going down.


And I say the same prayer, before, during, during, during and during the flight. "God, please have mercy on our plane and keep us in the air" (God is very aware of my irrational state of constant fear and is able to decipher my prayers and sift through the drama, luckily).

Once we land, my anxiety is usually so high that I have convinced myself I just merely escaped death. (I often pause and wonder if my husband or the passenger next to me feel this same way. They are usually sleeping.) I take a moment and thank Jesus for keeping me alive and allowing us to land safely. And usually an additional quick prayer that Matt will not be questioning whether or not he is still in love with the lunatic next to him.

But sometimes I don't remember to pray. Sometimes I start collecting the empty cups, slip my boots back on and smooth down the back of my hair. I turn on my phone and scramble to get my bag ready before it's my turn to exit the plane.

I forget to go back and thank God for answering my prayer in my favor. Honestly, this doesn't happen often when flying is involved, but it does happen quite often when my feet are back on the ground. When God provides a great job I've been praying for, when he heals a sickness that's weakening a loved one or simply when he gets me through a rough day.

I'm reminded of this in Luke 17:11-19. Jesus enters a village and ten men who are suffering from leprosy call out to him and say

"Jesus, Master, have mercy on us."

He heals them and they run off excitedly. Only one of the men turn back to him, fall down and worship him with thanksgiving and praise. The others forget to thank God for healing them.

God deserves praise all of the time, even when he doesn't answer my prayers the way I want, but I find it unsettling that even when I get what I ask for, I don't always take the time to turn around and thank him. Unsettling, yet not surprising.




Just a thought.