I’m usually the brat on plane-rides who gives-off the demeanor of being deaf and mute so you won’t talk to me.  Part of this is because I get scared and feel like if I “stay focused” the plane might not crash or face turbulence (I know—killer logic).  But the larger part is that is that I’m just stingy with down time and love that flying forces space for that.  Plus, isn’t it pointless to strike-up a couple houred friendship, when our descent is within  hours and you’ll never see me again.  Anyway, I didn’t realize I had such a cauldron of flying philosophy, but lest I make you think I’m a complete (expletive), I’ll digress.

With the above paragraph in mind, however, you can imagine my five-hour redeye this week wasn’t about to entertain convos with sidekicks in Row 17.  I wanted to sleep.  So when Seat C asked me a start-up question on the runway, I got squeamish.  Very quickly though, he squelched my anxieties and in fact, became quickly intriguing.

His skin showed a tanned hue of eastern ethnicity and his vocabulary quickly revealed a healthy education.  He looked about his 21 years and yet rattled off his unpretentious, “I’m a pre-med junior at James Madison” like he’d experienced 40.  Seat C quickly unloaded his current state, as if he’d been waiting to dump for about two years.  I was a captive audience at this point, and by the time we hit take-off (we sat on the runway for awhile), he’d already divulged pendulums swinging from cocaine and the givens of frat-house porn, to coastal differences and his girlfriend’s “lack of physicality” (which eventually spoke more specifically as: “I don’t understand the big deal about sex after dating seven months?”).  I was really enjoying Seat C at this point, and certainly the candid window into a college student’s world.

And then we met Seat A.

I don’t remember how he tilted his way into the conversation, but I do remember that one of his first topics covered shared the following. 

“I’m getting married in 3 months.” 
“Wow,” Seat C and I concurred, “you don’t look that old.” 
“I’m 15,” he responded in his deep North Carolina drawl, and then went on to share about his experiences with sex, drugs and drag-racing in the backwoods.  

Suffice it to say, two hours of upper class banter to that point were sidetracked.  A tobacco-chewing lad had quickly turned our attention to his window seat.  Seat C and him quickly saw eye-to-eye.  They shared levels of testosterone untethered to any sort of faith cuffing.  (Seat C comes from a Muslim family, but has never chosen to practice, and Seat A comes from the southern culture of most going to church, but few knowing God).  I ended-up representing the token gal in the Mars versus Venus conundrum.

At this point they still assumed I was about 21 (do I really look that young!? :)) and certainly had little idea of my faith association.  They learned quickly, however, that I camped with the chaste crowd and “studied philosophies of religion as an undergrad and now graduate student.”  But what they never learned (until facebooking me after we landed) were the extremes of my camps.  And I’m honestly really glad.  Had I stated upfront that I was a seminary student who writes books about Jesus, I highly doubt Seats C or A would’ve talked to me, let alone talked so freely with adjectives starting with “f,” or assertions of unfiltered reasoning.  I’m not saying our stance as Christians should always pull the silent card, but I am saying that, in this case, “evangelism” spoke a lot more loudly, and clearly, through a quieted existence, versus one that felt obliged to talk.  Parts of me still landed at LAX wondering the point of five and a half hours that never laid-out my full story.  But part of me also landed with a sense of wonder at the profound mysteries in just plain listening.