Maybe I misunderstood the announcement. When our flight from Atlanta was finally poised for takeoff after a considerable delay, the pilot identified himself over the public address system and informed us he would not be flying the plane. As if this were somehow the most natural thing in the world.
I thought for a moment it was a joke about automatic pilot, and couldn't help but envision the blow up guy from Airplane smoking a cigarette after a little impromptu romp in the cockpit. But no, there was apparently a real life human pilot sitting right next to him in the cockpit, a guy who is accustomed to traveling through treacherous skies after a lengthy stint in Afghanistan. Was this supposed to be comforting?
The skies over the Midwest had become a war zone, and our flight plan, with an air force fighter pilot at the helm, would take us through the "holes" in the storm -- an aviator's version of running between the rain drops. And streaks of lightning. And hail. And angry winds. The airport in Atlanta suddenly didn't seem like such a bad place to spend the night.
Sometimes you just have to have faith. I'm not sure who was at the controls as my family plowed its way through this past weekend, but somehow we ducked severe turbulence and jumped over a few puddles and made it to Sunday, still standing and still smiling. Car accidents and ticketing snafus aside, we had a glorious time celebrating my daughter and her friends as they received their very expensive tickets into real life. Our family is nothing if not resilient; we've been battered and bruised, but my children will be certain, after this weekend, that no matter what storms we have to weather, we will always be there for each other.
Stumbling blindly into this first of what will hopefully be many family celebrations, none of us had any idea where or how we would land or who would be flying the plane. But each of us did our part; we put one foot in front of the other, and dodged what could have been some very stormy weather.
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