Greetings from the Southern Plains!
The phone alarm blared at 4:30 AM, just as planned. The Uber was already scheduled the night
before, my bags were packed, and when the driver asked, “Dulles?” I nodded, half-conscious but confident. Yet, when I arrived at the airport, the ticket agent’s uneasy gulp told me something was amiss.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “you’re at the wrong airport.”
I had so looked forward to this trip, an intimate retreat with five fellow preachers whom I deep-
ly admire, followed by a workshop in Lubbock. And now, thanks to a simple but consequential mistake, all of it was at risk. I had gone in the wrong direction. It was a dumb mistake, born of fatigue, carelessness, and assumption. But none of those explanations would get me to Rea-
gan National, where my flight was actually departing.
The biblical word for mistake is hamartia, sin. Not just moral failure, but missing the mark in
any way. Aiming for the right place but landing elsewhere.
As I stood there, absorbing the reality of my blunder, the agent suddenly looked up from her
screen. “Somebody must be looking out for you,” she said. “The 6 AM flight was delayed. One
of the crew members blew a tire on the way. I can put you on a 7 AM. No extra charge.”
And just like that, I got there. I made it. Ahead of time, even. Forgiven. Grace.
Maranatha,
Jordy
