Restoration

I have to wonder what stories this plane could tell of its travels and passengers. I wonder how it felt traversing the sky to destinations known and not and how the winds buffeted its course. I wonder when it became less useful to its owners, when the shine wore off of its capabilities and purpose. I question why it was left to rot, perhaps as a “future project” for an owner’s progeny at some stage in the future.

Tucked behind a barn, near the crumbling tarmac of this rural airfield I happened upon, was this specimen of a bygone era. Ironically, this is a younger framed bird, having only fifty years or so of flight beneath its hallowed wings but a little worse for the wear. As to the questions asked at the open, I have no answers, only conjecture. It’s enough, however, to consider that this once-fine bird is no longer.

Being set out to pasture in this way isn’t perhaps what we want. We want that graceful aging, that patina of time and experience, to be part of how we fly off into the sunset of our lives. This circumstance is rather abrupt; broken windows, taped seams, growing weeds. It points to an abandonment of care at a point where it perhaps should be quite the opposite.

I find myself challenged in several ways with this image and I’ll attempt to elucidate at least one here today. This is where I find myself, after a sort, in those moments where my mind is left to wander about my purpose and place: a bit lost, overcome, taken for granted by both self-doubt and by others. I’ve got capabilities and potential and, through either my fault or others, haven’t quite been able to do much with them. Perhaps my time has already come and gone; perhaps it has not yet come again.

In the interim, I’m stranded here, treading water as much as I’d love to be treading the skies, earthbound when my purpose is heavenward. It’s a silent suffering of sorts, save for those moments where a rivet distends, a panel falls off, and my innards are displayed for their rat’s nest organization.

We all get this feeling from time to time. We hope for that renovation of the heart after years of dormancy, we long for that revival of spirit after the chill of winter’s discontent. We’re a bit stuck, a bit overwhelmed, a bit chastened and ashamed of what we’ve become.

No doubt this once-proud bird tore through the sky, leaping its way to 10,000 feet, excited to tackle the turbulence and turmoil of thermals to deliver its passengers safe and sound. And no doubt, should someone come along and see its potential to fly again, it could be restored to a similar state. All it would take is to see past the current state to the plane lying beneath.

We want that for ourselves. We want someone, anyone, to come along and view us in the way that makes our hearts explode with joy. When we find those people, we cling on to them with everything we have, loathe to let them slip away. It’s a joyous encounter of heart melded to heart, of finding purpose in being. It’s that quickening that comes in discovering a treasure behind a barn in a rural corner of a far-off place and realizing what could be.

We’re going to go through these ups and downs in our lives; our feelings of wasted potential and purpose and the bright hopes of being known and seen for who we are. We’re going to be tucked away behind other things at times as much as we’re going to be front and center in the grand narrative of life. In these moments where we’re waiting to be found, however, there’s an opportunity to grow still (and not just growing weeds around us).

During this week ahead, I challenge you, especially if you’re feeling a bit put out and left behind, to sit down and review your story. Tell yourself of the hijinks and low points, the triumphs and tragedies, the brokenness and the mending. Remind yourself of the tears and the laughter, the heartthrobs and the heartbreaks, and how they have all come together in the beautiful mosaic that is you. Perhaps in this autobiography of your life, you’ll find that you’ve not been forsaken, not left behind, and are beautifully and wonderfully made. Who knows? Maybe that’s what it will take to fly again.

May it ever be so.