We have lift-off
One of the things I love about the winter Olympics is watching the figure skating. Singles, pairs, ice dancing…it doesn’t matter. I’ve always thought it must feel like flying, the speed and the glides and the lifts and leaps, the graceful flow across the ice. The skaters are like barn swallows in a penguin’s habitat.
What is it about flying?
What is it about leaning back on the playground swing and thrusting oneself up, up, up to the heights, feeling that tiny lift before gravity grasps us and pulls us back into its arms?
Or driving one’s car over what as kids we always called “tickle-belly hills”, those rolling drives when for a split second our bodies are still moving upward while the car is already moving downward as it hugs the road?
It’s one reason I love roller coasters. Trampolines, too. They feel like flying, or at least what I think it must feel like to fly. Other than those deliciously wild dreams in the night where I am unencumbered by gravity, I really don’t know. This earth suit is dreadfully earthbound.
I love the moments when I feel the exhilaration of flight and it goes beyond the limitations of my body. It’s those moments where I know I’m doing what God made me to do, or that I was at the exact right place at the exact right time, doing the exact thing He had for me there, and it positioned me for a front row seat of the display of His goodness. In those moments, the part of me that is bigger on the inside than I am on the outside takes flight and it is nothing short of glorious, like the playground swing that never stops going up, or the triple axel that never comes down but gracefully twists and turns and soars through the air.
It’s a ballet flight of the spirit, and it would be a wonder indeed if my human eyes could see everyone and everything that is dancing through the air with me in that moment.