I gripped my armrest as our plane lurched suddenly up and then down. The seatbelt light dinged overhead. I glanced over to check my five-year-old daughter’s belt.
“Ooh Mom!” she said. “That was fun!
I smiled at her, remembering how, not that long ago, even the slightest turbulence would send me into panic mode. I hadn’t always been afraid of flying. As a child, I remembered enjoying it, as Aurora was now. But somewhere along the way, fear crept in. When flying, and honestly, in most other things too, worrying felt like something I could do to help keep us safe. It was as though I was showing God I knew how fragile my life was.
My husband opened my eyes to the folly of this idea. “You focus on outcomes opposite of the ones you’re praying for,” he pointed out. He was right. I prayed fervently to God to keep us
safe and then spent the rest of every flight sure we would crash
Where was the faith in that? So I changed my airplane prayers.
I still asked for safety. But I started asking for help with my fear as well. When things got bumpy, I stopped indulging in thoughts of catastrophe, and I worked hard to at least pretend
my stomach wasn’t in my throat.
Eventually, I realized I wasn’t pretending as often. Those menacing bumps and shudders weren’t as terrifying as they’d once been. I still didn’t like turbulence, but I no longer believed
it meant a crash was imminent.
Our plane shook again, and Aurora patted her tummy, a big grin on her face. “These bumps tickle!” she said. “They kinda do, don’t they?” I answered, and we laughed together.