to be loved.

      My head rests sideways on the tray table, with a backpack full of snacks and souvenirs as a pillow. The already busy day is nowhere near its end, and I want to use every opportunity to make up for what I know will be a long night of interstate driving. Alas, I can never sleep on an airplane.
      From the row behind me, I hear chatter about yesterday's choral performance. The commentary is merciless and laced with mockingly mispronounced Latin text, the narrators comforting themselves with their own dignity. I think some people talk loudly on purpose. I turn up my iPod just in time to hear, "God, be merciful to those whose pain we've never felt." I wonder what they feel right now?
      I open my bottom eye to remind myself of where I am. I see a sparkle in the sunlight peeking through a half-open shade. I open my other eye. His mother's ring is hardly out of place on her dainty finger, which he holds steadily. I glance up to see their heads together, sleeping peacefully, despite the buzz of conversation and the occasional ding of flight attendant call buttons. She told me last night that they've been betrothed for a year and a half. This explains their being inseparable, their tolerance with one another when everyone else is annoyed -- their insistence on each loving the other flawed but dedicated half. I wonder how long she's waited?

      In the background I hear a voice that I instantly recognize. It's that semi-popular guy, and I recall our morning conversation while waiting in the check-in line. He was discussing what to do with the ring, which I learned had been for his fiance sixth months ago. She wasn't ready. Was he ready? He wants to be a husband and father. How old is he? Maybe he could use his waiting time to prepare for such a big responsibility, to make himself the kind of person who would be good for the job. I kept thinking about the dirty joke he told a few days ago in a crowded elevator. No, he is old enough and ready now, or so he assured me. I wonder how he came to that conclusion?
      I glance across the aisle and spot a friendly face, then close my eyes again. She's a real live adult. For the past several days we've had scattered conversations, many about being a good spouse. After a "chance" meeting on one of his business trips, they kept up an overseas correspondence that grew into an eleven year (and counting) marriage. "What a fairy tale," I think to myself. They look at it as one more proof of God's impeccable timing. I turn down the music a little and hear her gentle voice talking to the person in the seat beside her; I am jealous. I wonder what that person hears?
      Judging from the number of tracks left on this album, I guess my flight is almost over. I push my earbuds in a little farther and try again to fall asleep, but I can't stop thinking about the people around me. In every row, every seat, there is a person who needs something. Resting on my tray table is a head that sometimes tries too hard to reason with the unreasonable, to draw lines around the abstract. Wanting to form some kind of conclusion to my thoughts, I'm interrupted by an order to prepare for landing. So much for my nap. I tighten my seat belt, shove my bag under the seat in front of me, and reach to turn off my portable electronic device. As I brace myself for the return to earth, I hear the last line of the last song, and just in time: "It's just about enough to be loved."

Credits: "Hymn For All The World" and "Enough To Be Loved" by Josh Bales, on Underneath The Armor