I had just landed in Dallas and was waiting to exit the plane to catch my connecting flight into Shreveport when the flight attendant announced over the speaker the gate number for my next plane.  "That was helpful," I thought.  Thanking her as I exited the plane, I walked through the tunnel, came out at the other end, and saw the sign pointing to the Skyline tram, a kind of elevated train that runs from one terminal to another.  Up the escalator I went toward the Skyline.  "Terminal B Ahead," read the sign.  The tram's doors opened.  I got on, grabbed the pole that stretched from floor to ceiling for balance, and the tram lunged forward.  This is helpful.  I'll be there in no time.

"Because of a security breach," the voice over the loud-speakers announced, "trains will not be stopping at Terminal B.  To get to Terminal B, you will have to exit at Terminal A or Terminal C and then walk to your gate."  I looked out of the window of the tram and over the parking lot which seemed to stretch from sea to shining sea, making the Grand Canyon look like a rest area on the side of the interstate.  Well, how far is that going to be? 

Oh, by the way-I've been told if you keep walking in the same direction you'll eventually come all the way back to where you started.  Well, right there in the DFW Airport, I found that theory to be true.  And so did my feet, which had flip flops on them because wearing no-lace shoes makes it only slightly easier to get through the security gate than it is for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.  This "convenient" tram wasn't very helpful.

Well, as luck would have it, or the grace of God, depending on the maturity of your theology of providence, after I had walked for what seemed like trekking from Shreveport to Bossier by way of Natchitoches, an angel of the Lord appeared.  Up behind me he came, driving one of those go-cart things right there in the overly-wide, institutionally-carpeted hallway of the airport.  Though the go-cart was loaded with people who looked absolutely exhausted, like they had wandered around for forty years in the wilderness with Moses, the driver offered me a ride.  "Why not," I mumbled, swallowing my pride.  This is actually pretty helpful.

It wasn't the fact that I had to ride the go-cart, though it fell only slightly short of the thrill of the Rockin' Rollercoaster at Disney.  It was the embarrassment I felt as the rather large group of U.S. soldiers, sitting right there waiting for their flight to Iraq, watched me climb aboard.  As sure as I am that Jesus is Lord, I'm certain they were snickering under their breath.   Thanks, guys.  That's not very helpful.

But they were heading off to Iraq.  Deploying so I can go to church on Sundays, fly in an airplane safely, attend a baseball game, Boy Scout campout, or dance recital.  Or simply walk 'til my feet fall off.  What those soldiers do for all of us... Now that's helpful.

I finally got to my gate.  Early, in fact.  Thanks to the helpful angel-of-the-Lord go-cart driver.  I even had time to sit and read a while.  And as I sat, my feet began to feel ok, but my heart felt even better.  Not from my heart rate finally returning to normal, but from watching a band of angels-grandma and grandpa types, volunteering at the airport, of all places-serving ice cold bottled water to you know who.  United States soldiers, that's who.  

Knowledge makes us proud of ourselves, while love makes us helpful to others (I Corinthians 8:1).

On the plane to Shreveport I wondered why those folks would spend their day at an airport passing out water. 

Onward, Christian soldiers.  Onward.