My commute to work takes me right past McGhee Tyson Airport. Seeing the large gates and expansive grass has become normal, and its exit off of Alcoa Highway hardly catches my eye anymore. But last week, the sight of a totally unromantic maintenance truck on the grounds made my heart flip, like the butterflies you get in your stomach when you see your crush.
I travelled through several airports this week to visit one of my best friends. As I sit waiting in Charlotte on the layover before the final leg of the trip, I feel compelled to write again.
I've had a long, complicated relationship with airports. Like a committed friend, they have seen me at my best and worst -- extremes including but not limited to:
Tears streaming across my face, ugly-crying as I say goodbye to my parents on the cusp of a great adventure.
Wild eyes and a magnet in my chest, pulling me strong towards the promise of my boyfriend's arms.
A nervous middle-schooler, trying my very best to keep from barfing on my brother.
But this time, at the airport, there's no fire of expectancy burning in my belly, no text message tingling at my fingertips, and no phone call to make "just in case something happens." There is no magic or romance at all.
Instead, there is just me.
And I am learning, over and over again, that having "just me" is just enough. That caring for, and protecting, and delighting in this person that God dreamed up doesn't require anyone else's permission or validation. It isn't motivated externally -- for an audition, or a show, or a person, or friends and family -- but motivated instead by the heart of God that bleeds and beats and burns and fights for me. For you.
I see His precision when crafting each strand of hair.
No quirk left unconsidered.
No passion or dream sewn in unintentionally.
Perhaps self-care isn't at all what our culture makes it out to be -- Oprah's trite "goddess-self" rhetoric, and make-up companies' "you're worth it" propaganda all seem to miss the mark. Perhaps self-care actually requires a great deal of courage: courage to listen to and stand-up for that sacred, small voice that dreams and hopes and intuits.
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