The Tarmac

I have always loved to fly.

I love airports. I love boarding passes tucked into the back pocket of my passport (or on my little app, thanks to the digital age). I love watching the departures board flip from "On Time" to "Boarding." I love watching the organized chaos outside my window as baggage is loaded, fuel trucks pull away, and ground crews move with an urgency that seems choreographed. I love the moment the wheels leave the runway and the familiar landmarks below become unrecognizable. I love watching a city shrink until it disappears beneath the clouds, knowing that in a few hours I'll end up somewhere entirely different.

I love almost everything about flying.

Except the waiting.

Not the kind of waiting that comes with a delayed flight or a long security line. I'm talking about those twenty or thirty minutes after everyone has boarded, the cabin door has closed, and...nothing happens.

The plane just sits there.

You glance out the window, convinced you should already be moving. You check the flight tracker. You wonder what could possibly be taking so long. From seat 22A, it looks like inactivity.

But it isn't…

Somewhere beneath the wings, fuel is being loaded. The baggage that seemed to disappear at check-in is finding its place in the cargo hold. If the weather calls for it, the aircraft is sprayed with deicing fluid to remove what could become dangerous at thirty thousand feet. Pilots review weather reports, confirm routes, communicate with air traffic control, and receive permission for a departure that depends on hundreds of moving parts beyond their own schedule.

Everything required for flight is happening before the plane ever leaves the ground.

That still isn't satisfying enough.

Once everyone has boarded, I want the plane to move. Sitting at the gate while the cabin door is closed feels unnecessary. Taxiing to the runway only to stop again feels even worse. I don't want another announcement about paperwork or waiting for clearance from air traffic control. I don't care that we're third in line for departure. I want takeoff.

The irony is that the moments I find most frustrating are the moments that make flight possible. None of the preparation feels exciting while you're sitting in row 22, but every bit of it matters once you're thirty thousand feet in the air.

My life has begun to eerily resemble flying.

I spend an embarrassing amount of time looking backward, replaying memories from places that shaped me and wondering when I'll get to return. The rest of the time, I'm looking ahead, searching for the next city, the next adventure, the next chapter. My mind is almost always at a destination other than the one my feet are standing in.

I love takeoffs just as much in life as I do on airplanes. I love beginnings. I love fresh starts. I love new opportunities, new cities, new friendships, and new dreams to chase. I love the feeling that something exciting is just around the corner.

What I don't love is everything that has to happen before any of those things. I don't naturally celebrate seasons that feel ordinary. I don't enjoy feeling stationary (I actually loathe it). I don't like praying the same prayers without seeing immediate answers or trusting God when I can't see Him moving. If I'm honest, I would skip the waiting altogether if I could.

But airplanes don't skip the tarmac…No pilot rushes through the checklist because the passengers are getting impatient (I mean, we hope they don’t). No ground crew decides fueling is optional because everyone is eager to leave. No one looks at a plane sitting still and concludes that nothing important is happening.

Stillness is not the absence of preparation - It is preparation.

I've begun to notice that God works the same way. The seasons I am most tempted to call stagnant are often the seasons where He is doing His deepest work. While I am asking why nothing seems to be changing, He is strengthening what cannot be seen. He is replenishing what has been depleted. He is addressing things that would become dangerous if I carried them into the altitude of whatever comes next.

Some of those things look a lot like the maintenance performed on an airplane.

Fuel has to be replenished - I can only run on yesterday's strength for so long before I begin to operate on empty. Rest stops feeling optional when life gets busy, but God has never asked me to sustain myself. He continually invites me back to Himself because He knows what the next leg of the journey will require long before I do.

The wings have to be cleared - Ice is fascinating because it often forms gradually. Layer by layer, almost unnoticed, until something designed to lift can no longer function the way it was created to. Resentment, disappointment, pride, fear, unforgiveness—our souls accumulate things just as quietly. Left unattended, they don't merely make the journey uncomfortable; they affect our ability to fly at all.

The pilot checks the route - Long before passengers hear, "We are cleared for takeoff," the pilot has already been communicating with people who have a perspective he doesn't. Air traffic controllers see the entire airport. They know what traffic is ahead, what weather is approaching, and which runway is safest.

How often have I demanded movement when God was protecting me from something I couldn't see simply because my view was limited to a window seat?

Then there are the passengers.

I've always found it fascinating that every flight is a collection of temporary relationships. Some people board with you because they're headed to the same final destination. Others are only with you until the next layover. You may spend hours sitting shoulder to shoulder with someone you'll never see again.

Life works the same way, doesn’t it? Some people are with us for decades. Others for a single season. Some help shape us in profound ways before their journey continues somewhere we were never meant to go.

For a long time, I viewed those departures as failures. I wanted everyone I loved to stay on the plane forever.

But not every ticket has the same destination.

Some people are meant to step off after one leg of the journey. Their leaving doesn't diminish what they meant while they were there. It simply means God never intended them to travel every mile beside me.

At the same time, new passengers board. People I couldn't have imagined needing become exactly the companions required for the next stretch of the journey. Looking back, I can see that every arrival and every departure made room for what was ahead.

I would have held onto almost everyone. God knew who needed to stay and who needed to deplane.

There is another reason I dislike the tarmac.

Waiting forces me to surrender control.

Once that cabin door closes, there is nothing left for me to do. I cannot speed up the fueling process. I cannot clear the runway. I cannot approve the flight plan or move us to the front of the line.

All I can do is trust the one in the cockpit.

That may be the hardest part of all. Because waiting exposes what I really believe. Do I trust the Pilot only after the plane is in the air, or do I trust Him while we're still sitting on the ground?

One requires confidence - The other requires faith.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that God is rarely in a hurry, even when I am (which is pretty much always, despite my best efforts).

He isn't bothered by my timeline because He sees the entire flight plan. He knows which storms need to pass before departure. He knows what needs to be repaired before takeoff. He knows which passengers are about to board and which ones are preparing to step off.

None of it is wasted.

I'm writing this from the tarmac.

Not from thirty thousand feet where everything suddenly makes sense, and not after landing safely with the benefit of hindsight. I'm still sitting in my seat, looking out the window, wondering what we're are waiting for. If I'm honest, it feels like we've been here for hours. Months, really. Every so often the engines grow louder or the plane inches forward just enough to make me think, This is it. We're finally taking off. Then we stop again. Another announcement. Another wait. Another reminder that we aren't moving yet.

This season of my life has felt remarkably similar. I know who the Pilot is. I know He sees the entire flight plan while my view is limited to a single window. I know He isn't surprised by delays or scrambling to figure out what comes next. I believe all of those things with my whole heart. But belief has not erased the ache of waiting. It has not made the silence feel any shorter, nor has it answered every question I keep asking Him.

So I keep returning to the same place. I open my Bible, sometimes expecting an answer and other times simply hoping for His presence. I pray, not because I always know what to say, but because I don't know what else to do. Some prayers are full of confidence. Others sound more like David's: How long, O Lord? Scripture has become less of a place where I go looking for explanations and more of a place where I remember God's character. When I don't know what He's doing, I can still remember who He has always been.

I'm struck by how often God asked His people to wait. Abraham waited decades for a son. Joseph waited through betrayal, slavery, and prison before he understood what God was doing. David was anointed king long before he ever sat on the throne. The disciples waited between the promise of Christ's resurrection and the coming of the Holy Spirit. None of them knew how long the waiting would last while they were living it. They weren't handed an itinerary or a countdown clock. They were simply invited to trust the God who had already proven Himself faithful.

I wish I could tell you I've figured out how to wait well. I haven't. I still find myself looking over my shoulder at places I've loved and straining to see what lies ahead, convinced that life will really begin once the wheels finally leave the ground. I still wonder why this season has lasted as long as it has. I still ask God when He'll clear me for takeoff. Most days, I don't receive the answer I'm hoping for.

What I do receive is another invitation to trust Him today instead of borrowing tomorrow.

I don't know how much longer I'll be sitting on this tarmac. By the time someone reads these words, I may still be here (likely). Or maybe the engines will have finally roared to life and I'll look back with gratitude for everything God was doing while I thought nothing was happening. Right now, I don't know which story I'll get to tell.

What I do know is that the Pilot has never abandoned the cockpit. He hasn't stepped away or forgotten about the passengers waiting behind Him. Every instruction He gives, every pause He allows, every moment that feels painfully still is informed by a perspective I simply don't have. I can either spend this season staring at the runway, frustrated that we haven't moved yet, or I can trust that even here—especially here—He is preparing me for a journey I could never prepare myself to take.

I still love flying. I still love takeoffs. And if I'm being honest, I hope mine comes soon. But until the Pilot says it's time, I'll keep opening His Word. I'll keep praying. I'll keep trusting that even when I can't see what He's doing outside my window, He is as faithful on the tarmac as He is in the sky.

bytaylormcgee