Safety Zone

Nothing relaxes me as much as driving, except maybe a bath, but the scenery doesn’t change much from the tub—only the color of the cat investigating the water. People who prefer to fly get there faster but the trip can’t be as good. If you’ve seen one cloud, you’ve seen them all, haven’t you? Granted it’s kind of neat to look down on them but eventually that gets mega boring.

The first few times I flew, I took pictures out the window. I have a million of them. You can smirk if you want, but don’t even try to convince me you haven’t done the same thing, because I know you have. Either that or taking pictures of clouds from airplane windows runs in my family, since my mother used to do the same thing. Once I looked back at my pictures, I realized one thing. I never could tell what trip I was on. That’s when I decided that taking pictures of clouds from an airplane window was pointless.

The best part of flying is the part right after takeoff and right before landing, as you’re flying over cities. Assuming, of course, that there aren’t any clouds in your way, you can see some cool things. If I’m flying into San Antonio, I always try to spot my house from the air. I have determined that unless I paint “YOU LIVE HERE” on the roof, that also is pointless. Flying into Phoenix makes you realize that everyone has a swimming pool in their back yard. Well, maybe not everyone, but it sure seems like it.

The pilot will normally point out interesting things in the landscape as you pass over them. Like the Grand Canyon or the Mississippi River. My house isn’t interesting enough for him to point out. For some reason it seems like whatever he wants us to look at is on the opposite side of the plane from where I’m sitting. The people sitting over there aren’t too cooperative if you want to lean over them and look out. Probably because they’re trying to take a picture of whatever it is. The view from the windshield of a car is entirely different and much more exciting. Plus, another big advantage is that you can stop along the way at exciting places. Like the alligator or snake farm. Pilots won’t normally allow those wonderful side trips.

After I joined the Air Force, I used to make a lot of trips cross country by myself. I’m fairly fearless and never worried about much other than the car overheating. That only happened a few times, and someone would stop to help. Usually a truck driver. They always stop and help. I’m positive it had nothing to do with the young chick in the convertible needing assistance. I’m pretty sure they’d stop for me even now—the old chick in the LaCrosse.

I will have to admit, though, that there are some places I hate driving. If you’ve ever driven from San Antonio to El Paso, you know that takes about a month. Three weeks of that is driving the couple hundred miles from Ft. Stockton to El Paso. That whole drive is desolate. There might be one tree hiding someplace but I don’t remember seeing any along the road. As much as I love Texas, I hate making that particular trip.

Another place I don’t like to drive is Southern California, around the Barstow area. One pictures California as being pretty and green, but there’s a stretch of desert out there that goes on forever. I’ve driven that highway several times and for some reason it used to make me a little bit uncomfortable. Probably because it was so desolate and miles between towns. It always seemed that I was all alone out there on the road.

About the time I would be thinking there really weren’t any towns within miles, I would spot something. I would see, off in the distance, a water tower. Back in those days, the Air Force painted all the water towers red and white. They’ve changed colors now, which is a shame, because it’s not so easy to spot them. From the highway, you could see the water tower for Edwards Air Force Base. And you knew that if you took the road to the base, you would be home. Not your real home, since you were just visiting, but a temporary home—an oasis in the middle of the desert where you would be safe.

The bases have changed but they still have one thing in common. A sanctuary if you need it—a place that will welcome you because you belong there, and you can rest during your journey. Even though I’m retired from the Air Force, they still welcome me with open arms. A haven where I can stay and be protected.

As I’ve grown older, I find myself looking for something else now. There is something singularly spectacular about finding a church nestled among the trees. The cross proudly displayed from the steeple. Most churches, no matter the denomination, will welcome you in. I know you can’t tell the character of a church because of how it looks from the outside, but you can normally be sure of one thing. It’s a safety zone. It’s full of people who will welcome you, make you feel glad you came, and keep you from harm. A temporary respite from the pressures of life.

I grew up riding along route 66 with my folks. We would leave either California or Arizona and go to Oklahoma to visit relatives. I used to love that drive. It had nothing to do with the fact that I was normally pulled out of school for a trip, I just loved to ride in the car.

My mom and sister would sleep in the back of the station wagon while I sat in the front seat to keep my dad awake. Not that there was ever much risk of him falling asleep. Since he drove like a bat out of Hell most of the time, he didn’t have too much of a chance to get sleepy. But he and I would sing songs or talk. Those were probably the happiest moments of my life. I was always bonded at the hip with my father and this was just one more way we stayed close. The speed with which he drove, normally the speedometer was well past the 100 mark, never concerned me. I was with my father who loved me, and I was safe. Never a doubt in my mind. When I was very young, he used to let me sit on his lap while he drove. That was before the days of seat belts and air bags. My little hands on the steering wheel, I actually believed I was driving the car. All the while, the strong hands of my father had the wheel firmly in his grasp, down low where I couldn’t see them.

I think I got my love for driving from my father. And for years, I drove pretty much as he did; one foot on the accelerator—one eye on the rear-view mirror to watch for cops. Daddy would make a lot of stops along the way. He gassed up more often than most drivers do, but when you’re transporting a wife, two daughters, and a dog…well, you get the picture. We’d do our thing and he’d watch the dog while Tippy did his. Looking back on it now, I don’t remember my father ever having to use the restroom. He either did and I just didn’t notice, or he had a bladder the size of Omaha. Since he drank a lot of coffee while driving, I’m pretty sure it was the former.

Having God as your co-pilot is like riding in the car with your father. No matter how fast life is coming at you or passing you by, Father will keep you safe. And when your earthly father has died way too early to suit you, your Heavenly Father is still there. No matter where you go or what you do, God’s hands have that steering wheel firmly in His grasp. You may not see them, but you know they’re there. And no water tower or cross on a steeple will ever give you that same feeling of comfort and safety. No matter how fast you drive.