"Leaving on a jet plane . . ."

 July 12 (36,000 feet)

          I am sitting in Seat 27F at 36,000 feet reflecting and thinking.  This is not my assigned seat.  I volunteered to move.  Let me back up and tell you how I am in the wrong seat.

          We were walking down the cattle ramp to our plane behind a guy who is almost 7 feet tall.  Lynne and I settled into aisle seats on the same center row with an empty seat between us.  I heard two stewards discussing a couple who were not seated together but wanted to be together.  One was in an aisle seat (27F) and the other was in an emergency exit row seat.  The tall guy was sitting across from me in an aisle seat.  So I look at him and call, “Hey dude!  The stewards are discussing someone in an exit row set who wants to move.”  I then got the attention of one of the stewards and told her, “the tall dude would love to sit in an emergency exit row.”  She said that for that to happen there would have to be two seats open for her and her husband to sit together.  She looked at me and said rather snidely, “Are you willing to give up your seat so they can sit together?”  I told her yes, if tall dude got the emergency exit row.  So I moved to 27F, tall dude got his leg room, and the husband and wife sat next to Lynne.  My aisle seat is directly in front of Lynne.

          As much as we complain about security screenings at airports, today I was blessed going through the security screening.  How you ask?   It took four trays in London security for me to break down, undress and otherwise unburden myself in order to walk through the metal detector.  Holding up my pants like I was shuffling through “the hood”, I made it through without any alarms.  I arrived on the other side and waited for my ill-gotten booty to pass through the x-ray machine and emerged to be claimed.  When it finally made an appearance, I stacked all four trays and placed them on the table behind me.  I began to re-dress, re-distribute my items, and re-weave my belt so my pants would not fall to me feet.  Across the table from me a man of Middle Eastern decent was re-dressing himself also.  As he turned to walk away I glanced up and notice a hand full of coins still in his plastic tray.  So I called out, “Hey dude, you left your coins!”  He kept walking and never turned back.  So I dumped the coins in my hand.  They were all 1£ coins with the exception of a single 2£ coin.  In total there was about 14 pounds in British coins there.  Let me translate that for you:  $21 US.   

          What to do?  Well, food in Heathrow is expensive.  So Lynne and I used our new found wealth to buy snacks while waiting for our flight to depart for Atlanta.  A 500 ml coke was $2.75.  So we had free snacks and drinks on the Middle Eastern dude who threw away his coins.

          Interestingly, my Coke was named Rebecca.  What??   I bought the first Coke for Lynne, and noticed when I took it out of the machine saw on the side of the label, “Share a Coke with Dan!”  I then examined all of the sodas in the machine.  The all had the same label, but with different names.  I chose Rebecca.   While we were enjoying our drinks and snacks, a lady came up to the machine and purchased a Coke Light.  She just threw coins in the machine and punched some buttons.  There was no regard for who she would “Share” that Coke.    I am not sure callous disregard is the right term, but it comes to mind.  Do they put names on the Cokes in the US?   Has anybody noticed?

          You might remember my blog yesterday about our “Road Warrior” trip to Lusaka from Choma.  As Lynne and I were riding the London Tube from Heathrow to South Kensington (our transfer point for the green train to Westminster)  something else about that night on the Highway to . . . Lusaka came to mind.  Blu and I were applying our superior intellects to the problem of the overheating engine and asynchronously flickering oil light, when the girls began to sing the Madame Blueberry song from Veggie Tales.  It was an abrupt interrupt to the “grey cell” summit Blu and I were having, and then Blu started singing with them.  That was probably what drove me to the contingency plan of who we should eat first if the bus broke down and we had to survive on the side of the road.  So that whole “cannibal” episode was clearly the fault of Madame Blueberry.

          Lynne and I are praying about returning to NDO for 6 weeks next summer.  God has really burdened us for the work there.  We covet and appreciate your prayers.  If God is really calling us back, he will provide the funds.  I have already started to grow my beard back for our return.  Actually I have three reasons for letting the beard grow again.  First, I don’t have to shave as much; it is a time-saver. Secondly, when people ask questions to which I don’t know the answer, or that I don’t want to answer, I can rub my beard. This gives the illusion I am thinking over the question carefully.  It seems to provide a distraction that leads people to forget they asked a question.  Finally, but certainly not least, it reminds me to pray for my brothers and sisters at NDO and the children.

          All jocularity aside, I did find that a beard earned me more respect from the Zambians.  They also saw me as an authority figure (because of the beard).  The beard provided me opportunities to share and teach Biblical truth.  I know it doesn’t really take effort to grow a beard, only patience.  In the early stages, it is like snuggling with a porcupine.

          Enough rambling!  I am going to do something to make the last 4 hours of this flight go faster:

                              -watch a movie.

                              -read a book.

I don’t want to sleep.  Forcing my circadian rhythm into Georgia time is my goal!  Wow!  Out of nowhere a steward just came by and placed a plastic cup of apple juice in my hand.  He probably thinks it will stop me from talking to myself and disturbing my neighbors.  TTFN!!!