Tell Me a Story...

I'm sitting on a bench in O'Hare, trying to get home. It's a story, as usual, as to how I ended up here. And, it will be a story, as to how I make it 'home'. Our days are full of stories. I think it's what we do with them--how we respond as we're in them, how we reflect on them after they're over--that matters. Do we choose joy or frustration? Are our circumstances a product of God's sovereignty or fatalistic luck? I believe there's a reason, a purpose, for all that happens. Naturally, my responses to what I encounter daily should--but don't always--reflect that belief.

I love the fact that my life is filled with crazy characters, unexpected plot twists, and settings that traverse a couple of continents of this big world. What I don't always love is the travel that it takes to live out the stories. I feel more at home in some international airports then I do on the interstates of major cities I have lived in. I know the adrenaline rush of running through terminals, the panic of hearing my name called over the loudspeaker (as in, "the gate will be closing in THREE minutes"), and the frustration of sitting on the tarmac for hours--in various countries. As a friend said, "I used to think travel was glamorous...till I lived it." And yet, 'fun' or not, it's a necessity in this increasingly small world we live in.

So, I sit. Watching cars, buses, and the airport train go by. Watching people pulling suitcases and pushing strollers as they walk past. Wondering about the stories they're living today, as I choose to enjoy the twist in my own... Thinking about the 'why'... Wondering at the amazing ways our lives intersect those of perfect strangers. And waiting for the way today's story in my life will work itself out in the end (hopefully with a safe landing in Omaha sometime yet this afternoon)....