On July 28th our family flew into Newark airport in New Jersey. After two and a half years in Poland, we were about to be back on American soil. Part of me was interested to see what it would be like. Would it feel like coming home after a long journey? Or would it just be another stop in our twenty-six hour trip? As we walked off the plane and down the hallway, I found myself taking in all of the sights and sounds. Brightly colored clothing. Loud American voices. Advertisements in a language I could understand. But as we got in line for passport control, I was struck by a strange thought. This didn’t feel like a homecoming. In fact, just the opposite.
I felt like a foreigner in my own country.
Having spent six years of my life in post-Communist European countries, there are days where I consider myself more European than American. In fact, when people ask where I am from, my gut reaction is usually to tell them “Poland.” I actually have to stop and think for a second before I can say “Oklahoma.” In many ways I just feel more Polish. I get frustrated with America’s lack of public transportation. And the lack of sidewalks. I get annoyed when people complain about having to walk to the dining hall, about a ten minute walk from our dorm, because in Poland I had to walk this far almost every day just to get to the tram line. I will admit, however, that walking to North Campus can be a serious pain in hot August weather. But the distance itself is nothing. Hersey’s chocolate just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. Where’s the Milka? And what’s up all the fruit juices being half sugar? After three weeks back in the States I am sick of fried food and sugary sodas. I ate salad two days in a row in the cafeteria, something I would never do at home, just because I was desperate for something green. I keep my room stocked with apples so I have access to fruit. I also find myself approaching relationships with the reserved, post-Communist mindset, and no matter how hard I try I can’t seem to convince my brain that in America how many hoops you have to jump through is not, in fact, directly proportional to who you know. The few Polish words I know have permanently inserted themselves into my vocabulary, and I have to stop myself from using them around my American friends. In short, I feel Polish.
Standing in passport control in the Newark airport, wishing we could turn around and just go “home”, I was suddenly struck by the realization that this is how Christians are supposed to feel about the world. John 15:19b says “As it is, you do not belong to the world, but I have chosen you out of the world.” As a kid I used to have a T-shirt that had on it a fish in a little tiny bowl. Underneath the fish it said “This world is not my home.” I had always accepted that phrase with my head, but my heart had never completely understood it until that moment.
Have you ever seen the movie The Terminal with Tom Hanks? The movie is about a man who gets on a plane to America. While he is in the air a violent revolution occurs in his country, and by the time he lands the U.S. has refused to recognize the new government. In a way, it’s as if the country no longer exists. Which means that Viktor, played by Tom Hanks, is technically not from anywhere and so his documents are no longer valid, leaving him stuck in the airport. He spends the rest of the movie living in the airport while trying to find a way to leave. In the process he touches the lives of many people who happen to be there.
In a way, this world is like an airport. We don’t really belong here. This is just a layover on the way to our final destination: heaven. Having moved six times in my eighteen years, sometimes I don’t feel like I belong anywhere. I can get caught up in looking for a place that feels like “home.” But the truth is, while I may find places I love, I will never really find a place that is truly my home. Such a place just doesn’t exist in this world. That was something I had to learn to give up over the years. I have had to learn to enjoy the terminal where I am, but to also accept that it is not my final destination.
Sometimes the airport is a fun place to be. Personally, I love airports. I basically grew up in them. Some of my favorite memories are from being laid over in an airport with other MK’s and having to find ways to entertain ourselves. The moving walkways were always a favorite. Especially when someone had a video camera. My favorite time was when a group of us flew through Frankfurt, Germany and discovered that the international terminal has a McDonalds with a rocket-shaped playground. We spent the rest of our time there playing with our Alvin and the Chipmunks happy meal toys. But no matter how much fun we might have had, we always knew that the airport was not our final destination. Eventually our plane would arrive and we would move on to somewhere infinitely better. Life is like that too. Someday the layover will end and we’ll catch a plane to paradise where we’ll spend eternity worshipping our God.
So when the airport gets boring and you’ve run out of money and your I-pod battery is dead and your back hurts from sleeping on the floor with your suitcase as a pillow, remember that this is not the final destination. Someday, things will be even better than you can possibly imagine. But as long as you’re here, you might as well make the best of it. And I’m not just talking about playing on the moving walkways. Do what you can to make a difference in the lives of others around you. It’s like my dad said in one of his sermons: “Be in the world, not of it.” So while you’re here, make friends. Do what you can to make their day brighter. Even something as small as a smile can make a difference in someone’s day. Don’t waste this opportunity. Because you never know when you might be the only person in your terminal who can tell someone about Jesus.
Enjoy the airport. :)
-Ash
No comments:
Post a Comment