Nicene #10 Heathrow

Heathrow: Lift

“He will come again in glory

to judge the living and the dead,

and his kingdom will have no end.”

—

The alarm sounds

at quarter past four.

David is fifty-three.

He has flown

for twenty-nine years.

His wife, Emma,

turns over

without waking.

Downstairs,

the kettle boils.

He drinks one coffee

before work.

Wednesday

is recycling day.

He rinses yoghurt pots,

folds cardboard flat,

washes the jam jar

before putting it out.

Outside,

the hybrid starts.

The M25

is already moving.

By half past five,

Terminal Five

has found its rhythm.

Cabin crew.

Security staff.

Cleaners.

The girl

behind the counter

takes his glass keep cup.

“Flat white?”

He nods.

“One sugar.”

She smiles.

“I’d already started.”

The smell

of warm kerosene

hangs

above the apron.

His father

used to bring him here

when he was a boy.

They parked

by the perimeter fence,

counted departures

and guessed

where they were going.

His father

never flew.

Money

never quite stretched.

Still,

he taught David

to look up.

The briefing.

Weather.

Fuel.

Checklists.

Nothing skipped.

Orange wands

circle slowly.

The tug

pulls away.

Outside,

the aircraft waits,

white against

the morning sky.

Before climbing aboard,

his hand finds

the little Celtic cross

beneath his shirt.

He bought it

on Lindisfarne,

before children,

before mortgages,

before life

filled every corner.

Without thinking,

his thumb

finds the worn edge.

Twenty-nine years

of take-offs

have polished it

smooth.

The prayer

is always the same.

Lord Jesus,

keep us.

The engines rise.

Then—

lift.

Every time,

it catches him.

Not the power.

Just that moment

when something

too heavy

leaves the earth.

Above cloud,

fields

become patchwork.

Roads

become threads.

Crossing France,

the rivers

run lower.

Crossing the Alps,

more rock.

Less snow.

An older captain

said once,

“Weather’s got teeth

these days.”

Nobody answered.

They checked

the instruments.

Carried on.

His son

starts university

in September.

His daughter

and Tom

are saving

for a house.

The mortgage

has eleven years left.

On Sundays

he sits

near the back

at church.

Three rows ahead

is Peter,

a science teacher.

His daughter, Grace,

used to help

with the children.

Last month,

Peter stood

after the notices.

“I’d value

your prayers.

Grace

was arrested.

She joined

a climate protest

outside an airport.”

Afterwards,

people spoke

in low voices.

David

thought about

walking over.

Instead,

he picked up

his coat

and went home.

A week passes.

Grace

does not return.

Peter

still arrives early.

Still sings.

Still leaves

before the coffee

has run out.

David

watches him once,

then looks away.

Passengers

begin to board.

A young couple

off to Boston.

Three nurses.

An elderly woman

travelling alone.

A father

lifts his son

to the window.

The boy

presses both hands

against the glass

as another aircraft

climbs

into cloud.

David smiles.

He remembers

doing the same.

Not every flight

is a holiday.

Some carry

new beginnings.

Some carry

goodbyes.

Some carry

people home.

A woman

thanks him

for getting them there

through turbulence.

A little girl

waves.

He waves back.

Crossing oceans,

he has watched

wildfire smoke

stretch

to the horizon.

The work

goes on.

Cloud.

Rain.

The Thames

winds

through London.

Terminal Five,

waiting again.

He has seen

this view

thousands of times.

It has never

become ordinary.

The Creed says

Christ

will come again

in glory,

to judge

the living

and the dead.

Tomorrow

the alarm

will sound again.

He will drive

to Heathrow,

hand over

the glass keep cup,

touch

the little cross

beneath his shirt,

its worn edge

finding his thumb,

and whisper,

“Lord Jesus,

keep us.”

Once more,

something heavy

will leave

the earth.

And somewhere,

beyond

every flight path,

beyond

every departure board,

the King

is coming.

His kingdom

will have

no end.

Rev’d Jon Swales