“Is that a real airplane?” Ana shrieked, as she plastered her face against the backseat window.
“It is,” I replied. “That’s a fighter jet—an F-86 Sabre. It used to fly but now they have it on display.”
“Can I get a picture with it? Is that allowed? Please!”
“Sure, we’ll stop after lunch.”
“Awesome! Hey, look, Derek! There’s another plane! Can we get a picture with that one too?”
“I suppose so. Sure. After lunch.”
Moments later, Ana rose from her enchilada plate at the McGee Tyson ANG Base Dining Hall and walked over to a young, uniformed Airman. He smiled, nodded graciously, and posed for a picture with her.
We’re going to get kicked out of here, I thought.
She returned to the table with a grin from ear to ear.
“He was so nice! And cute! I got a picture with him.”
“We saw that,” I replied. “Now, help yourself to seconds if you want. It’s all-you-can-eat, even the dessert bar.”
“Really? Wow! This place is amazing!”
Ana’s head remained on a swivel, overwhelmed with the sights and sounds. As we exited the Dining Hall, she spotted the Missing Man Table.
“What’s the deal with that?”
“That’s the POW/MIA Table. It helps us to remember prisoners of war and troops who are missing in action. Each item on the table is symbolic. They put the table here to help us remember those who aren’t with us.”
“That is so cool! Look at this table, Derek! It’s for the missing troops. Can I get a picture with it?”
“Sure, Ana.”
We said farewell to the rest of our lunch companions and drove to the field with aircraft on static display. Ana hustled from the car to the F-86 Sabre, with Derek (cancer survivor, multiple sclerosis, stage 2 kidney failure) struggling to keep up.
“This plane is amazing! Look how shiny it is! Where should I stand?”
“Perhaps over by the wing.”
“Okay, can I get two pictures? One with my hair up and one with my hair down?”
“Sure, Ana.”
I’d never been asked that before.
After more pictures—hair up and hair down—with a nearby F-104 Starfighter, Ana wanted more.
“Can we drive around the base? I saw some fire trucks earlier. And some helicopters.”
“Sure, Ana, that will be fine. We’ll find them.”
I realized my 1:00 p.m. NFL game-watching plan was now in jeopardy.
Ana and Derek are friends, fellow Christians, and special needs adults. I’ve had the pleasure of getting to know them this year, of studying the Bible together, and of giving them rides to church from their group home. Two weeks ago, Ana asked me to assist her with getting baptized. She now regularly texts me with questions like, “How do I know if I’m gossiping?” “Is it okay to go to a haunted house?” And “Are there any available young men at church?” I may give her Janet’s number.
Ana’s joyfulness and curiosity were on full display during our Sunday afternoon at the Air National Guard base. She was a 20-year-old in a candy shop with an appetite for everything in the store. I’ll admit that her enthusiasm was contagious.
You see, I grew up and spent most of my life living and working on military bases. The sound of jets flying overhead, and the smell of flight line fuel are familiar. I’ve landed and taken off in a war zone and accompanied my dad on countless tours of the massive C-5 cargo plane he used to pilot. I’ve eaten in enough all-you-can-eat military dining halls to no longer be impressed by them. While I appreciate our troops in uniform, I don’t need to pose for pictures with them. I’m also not compelled to take selfies with military jets, retired or otherwise.
I’m afraid my familiarity with all things military has cost me joy and curiosity. It’s just another plane, just another meal, just another troop in uniform. I’m finding a benefit of growing older is you gain wisdom and experience. A downside is that extraordinary things can become, well, just ordinary. You’ve seen it all. You’ve done it all. Like Solomon contemplating the monotony of life, you conclude, “There’s nothing new under the sun.” (Ecclesiastes 1:9)
And then on a beautiful fall day in East Tennessee, God sends an Ana into your life to help you rediscover joy. You see the familiar—a military base—through a new lens. You re-experience life’s sights and sounds not through old, tired eyes, but a new set of eyes. Ana’s eyes. You contemplate the impressive design of the F-104 and imagine traveling at 1,688 miles per hour! You thank God for a $6 all-you-can-eat buffet—a rarity these days! Rather than pass by a familiar POW/MIA Table, you pause and remember the sacrifices made by others so that we can be free. You say a prayer for the families of those who never came home from war. You take a moment to thank our troops in uniform and pick up their tab at a restaurant.
What extraordinary things in your life have become routine? Your spouse? Your children? This morning’s sunrise? The mountains in the distance? Your observance of the Lord’s Supper? How about your ability to travel, to love, to digest food, or even to breathe? Folks, those are extraordinary things! They are gifts from God!
For the rest of 2023, at least, I’m challenging myself to rediscover joy. To see common things for the gifts they truly are. To see the world the way Ana saw that military base. To find “everything new under the sun.” To appreciate the familiar—friends and family, the upcoming holidays, and life’s other blessings—like never before.
I’m going hunting for fire trucks and helicopters.
And when I find them, I’m taking selfies—hair up and hair down.
