I sucked in my breath as the acceleration pushed me back into my seat. Well, half of me was pushed back into my seat and the other half was glued to the window. Miami dropped away beneath us as we soared to yonder skies. Guayaquil, here we come! I whispered.
Several hours later, my nose was again glued to the window. Beneath me, flickering lights grew brighter and buildings loomed larger. We sank toward the runway and then with a rumble, the wheels hit the asphalt. I sucked in a deep breath. Ecuador, we are here! We are home! Michael leaned over my shoulder and together we watched the runway flash past.
At that moment, flying in a jet felt like freedom. You could go places your feet could never carry you. You could visit places you had earlier only dreamed of. You could see eyes through a new lens.
The next four days were packed to the brim. Whenever I thought of leaving, my gut clenched and I pushed back tears. “I don’t want to leave,” I told my friends, “but I’ll be back. I will.”
“Kari, come back please. Come back for the program. Come back for a month,” the six Miller children begged. The children that had become like my nieces and nephews.
“I will come back sometime,” I promised, hugging them goodbye, “but I don’t know when, because it’s not free to fly in a jet.”
Early the next morning, Joshua drove us to the airport. To the jet that would bear us home. My stomach was knotted in a thousand knots and the breakfast sandwich that had looked so appetizing on the screen nauseated me. When it was time to board, I handed over my passport and boarding pass. “You’re good to go,” the lady at the desk told me. I shuffled down the jet bridge wishing I were going the opposite way. Suddenly I saw a flight of stairs leading downstairs, away from the plane. In one impulsive moment I felt like throwing my luggage down the stairs and running after it. Away from the jet. Away from the States. And back to Ecuador, the land I love. But I resisted my impulses and walked sedately on.
We landed in Miami. We landed in Detroit. The ache in my heart stayed, and the tears inside kept falling.
It is not free to fly in a jet.
Now that I am home, I dream about going back. I dream about the friends I miss. I dream about the adventures I’m missing. I even miss the cows I could be milking.
“But tickets cost money,” Dad says when I beg to go back.
“I’ll… I’ll pick raspberries and sell them if you let me go back,” I plead.
Dad just looks at the snow-covered woods and smiles.
It is not free to fly in a jet.
This is true in more ways than one. Plane tickets cost money, lots of money, and some people are not blessed with lots of money. But flying has more of a cost than just tickets. When you go to a country and start to love it, you will never be the same again. You leave a part of your heart there, and soon you have bleeding bits of your heart spread out over three countries.
It is not free to fly in a jet.
It costs you heartache. Loneliness. An itching travel foot. It costs you more than you want to give.
But is it worth flying in a jet?
Absolutely!