Before a big storm hit us Friday, the winds came in a different direction.
Instead of the planes coming in to Orange County airport on their usual route, on Thursday they took a big sweep over the Pacific and came in a different way.
One plane after the other. Again and again.
My house is directly in the flight path. And you’ll know, if you’ve ever lived in a flight path of a busy airport, that you learn to gauge the time of day by the planes flying overhead. In some seasons and some afternoons, it feels like once every sixty seconds.
When the flight path changes with the wind it’s interesting. The normal path clears but somewhere, about five miles southwest of me the same airport is getting the same planes once every sixty seconds or so.
Those pilots can see the destination no matter where they are coming in from, no matter how they get there, those planes still land.
Something is going on right now in our lives and I can’t see from here to there. I can’t see the “airport”, so to speak. And I guess the winds feel different.
But I know the destination is there because I can see the journey laid out in front of me.
In fact, the immediate future to me right now seems like stepping stones in a pond. I’ll have to seriously jump, but I can see the path.
Just because my flight path feels different than normal doesn’t mean that I’m not going to arrive. And I guess that’s what hope is:
Hope might be only knowing that the destination exists and being okay with only seeing part of the path. That that is enough.