The pilot’s seat gives great perspective. Even in bad weather, the instruments tell me everything I need to know. Blue, in the round gage directly in front, represents sky; black, the ground; white dividing line, the horizon. So, the center white dot means my nose is below the horizon. The short lines left and right, representing wings, show a small right bank.
Going clockwise, the altimeter says I’m 4,250 feet above sea level.
Below, the single white pointer warns of a 700 foot per minute descent.
To its left, the compass marks my course of 336 degrees, but the red line points to 340 degrees.
The instrument in the lower left corner with the miniature airplane indicates a slight right turn.
Above, the gage with colored arcs says my speed through the air is 130 knots—about 150mph.
Each instrument offers specific information. But when taken all together, they paint a complete picture of my situation. In this case I’m descending and turning right. Next I’ll level off at 3,800 feet on a heading of 340 degrees and prepare to land. Pretty easy, actually.
Unfortunately, some days flying through my life proves more difficult. I fret in the back of my emotional cabin, vexed by bumps and perplexed by hard arrivals in bad places. I protest, “Life should be easier now!” and shake my fist at the idiot piloting my destiny. Then I remember—I’m the idiot.
Truth is, God didn’t wire me with an autopilot, only free will. Just as I chose him the first time, I have to choose him today. I must get up, suit up, and show up in my assigned seat—with Christ in heavenly places (Eph. 2:6). Only that perspective reveals what I need for successful flight.
