
I really love traveling by air. There’s just something about it that makes me come alive. I love being in airports—the atmosphere, the movement, the endless possibilities of where people are headed. I even love being on the plane itself. Believe it or not, I enjoy the plane food too. The whole experience stirs up a kind of joy in me that’s hard to explain.
But what I love most is watching people. Airports feel like windows into so many untold stories. I see the mother cradling her baby, the child fussing in line, the businessman gripping his briefcase, the young guy with headphones, what’s he listening to, I wonder? And behind every face, I imagine a whole world of emotions.
Maybe someone just got the best news of their life and is practically floating. Maybe another is grieving deeply, holding back tears. One person might be celebrating a big promotion, while another just lost their job. Someone may have bought this ticket with excitement, while another used their very last savings just to get here.
Airports remind me that we’re all carrying something invisible. More than luggage, we carry our hopes, our struggles, our private joys, and our hidden heartbreaks. And for a moment, in that busy space, all those stories are traveling side by side.
The word is sonder. It is a beautiful, newly coined term that describes the sudden realization that everyone around you is living a life as rich and complicated as your own. Each person carries their own mix of dreams, fears, routines, and struggles, even as they pass by unnoticed in the rush of daily life.
Then the plane begins to climb. Hundreds of feet become thousands, and soon tens of thousands. Faces blur into dots, cars shrink into toys, neighborhoods fade into faint clusters of lights. From up here, the worries and stories of the people below seem invisible. Their lives, so urgent and pressing on the ground, appear almost insignificant from this height.
The best flights catch either sunrise or sunset, when the horizon glows with colors no artist could capture. And there, hanging above it all, is the Sun, a blazing sphere of fire, unimaginably massive, and I am glad it is sitting 150 million kilometers away. I marvel at how something so vast and powerful shares the same universe with us fragile humans with our fleeting desires, our worries, our small but deeply felt needs. From the window of an airplane, it all feels both humbling and holy: the smallness of our lives against the backdrop of such immensity, and yet the undeniable beauty in both.
But then I find my thoughts turning to the one thing we all share: an appointment with death. In that busy space, every single person, without exception, has that same appointment waiting. White and die, black and die, rich and die, poor and die, old and die, young and die, sorrowful and die, joyful and die. Death is the great equalizer.
And I wonder, as those countless faces pass by, have they ever truly contemplated their mortality? Do they understand the weight of that appointment?
Hebrews 9:27 comes to mind: “And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment.”
Do they know that there is no other name under heaven given among men by which we must be saved—only Jesus? Looking down at the lights of those neighborhoods, I find myself pondering: is there a community there that knows this truth, that cares enough to guide others toward the only way of escape? Then my eyes lift to the sun, blazing in its glory, and I offer a silent prayer of gratitude. Grateful that I am no longer in enmity with the God who opens his mouth and stuff like that comes flying out. Grateful that I am held, not by fear, but by grace, under the gaze of a Creator so vast and yet intimately near.







