As my speaking calendar fills up I know I will be flying more. Like, in planes. In the air. This I do not care for. I don’t have a legit fear of flying like some of my friends, but I will sweat and have nervous bladder the entire flight.
I will be in full on panic mode if I am stuck in the middle seat. I will question anyone who uses an on-board blanky, because we all know that thing has a million different sets of DNA on it. I will deal with an aisle seat and mildly appreciate the freedom one side of my body will have. But I prefer the window seat.

The window seat, in my opinion, is the second worst seat on an airplane to get. My nervous bladder tricks me into thinking I have to make potty every 13.2 minutes. So I am constantly climbing over people to find relief. The middle seat person always wants to lean on the window seat person to take pics of the clouds with the planes wing artistically making an appearance in the top right corner. And the window seater always has to whisper over the sleeping middle seater to ask the flight attendant for some peanuts.

Still, I prefer the window seat – and this is why…

When I was a little girl, like five or six years old, I remember playing in my front-yard and always seeing and hearing planes flying above. We must have lived near an airport. But for every single plane that flew over, I was convinced my father was in it. I just knew that he was looking for me, and that was the only way he could find me.

You see, my father was out of the picture by the time I was three. But I assumed he didn’t want to be and that he was doing everything in his power to find me. Like, charter airplanes so that he could get a better, clearer, broader view to spot me.

So with each plane that passed over I would jump up and down below, wave my arms frantically yelling, “I’m right here, daddy! Look here. It’s me. Can you see me?!” but the plane would continue to fly over. And I would wait for the next plane to get my daddy’s attention again.

So what does this have to do with the window seat on a plane? Everything. To me.

I spend lots of time staring out that window and praying for the little girls like me. I pray for the young boys, the left behind children who just want to know why their father isn’t there.

Sometimes their father is absent for their safety. Sometimes their father is absent without choice. But to a child, none of that matters. All they know is their daddy isn’t there.

So I pray for them. I connect with their hearts, their thoughts, their wishes. I get it. And it breaks my heart. And I pray that God will swoop down and scoop them up and be the Father they ultimately need. I pray for their futures; that their fatherless childhood will not set the stage for their life’s journey. I pray for soft hearts, for forgiving hearts. I pray for their nights when they cry, silently, on their pillows.

But mostly, I pray that they break the chains of the cycle that left them fatherless. Whatever they were… I always pray that those young ones find their strength, their significance in this life, their purpose; that they rise up and be a positive change in their generation.

You, like me, may be one of those little ones. Perhaps you may know of a little one. Would you partner in praying for them with me? I do believe that prayer is a mighty powerful force. And when many pray, big things happen.

Lets be there for these young ones.


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