How the Magazine Was Born
The Captain is seated at the controls and I greet the steady stream of people as they shuffle in. They’re from all walks of life—the young and old, rich and poor, disgruntled, disfigured, glamorous and cantankerous. Some are dressed up and fed up, on their way to a celebration. Others are longing for hibernation. They’re newly wed, in the red, scholars and dropouts, rebels and peacemakers. Some are scary and some are silly and as they find their seats, I help them with their baggage. They all have baggage, just as I do. Sometimes they fib about how much they’ve brought.
Soon, we’re off. I take my stance at the front and try to gain their attention. They need to see this, but they’ve settled in and many look away because they trust that this flight will be smooth. But sometimes, the flight isn’t smooth . . . I show them what to do with their masks and how to prepare for an emergency. We’re all on the same journey, completely at the mercy and timing of our Captain.
Flashbacks from millions of air miles begin to flood my memory. There’s the man who boarded in Vegas. His blank stare is laced with paranoia because he’s just gambled away his life savings and doesn’t know how to tell his wife. And there’s the woman in the back who has passed out. A man nearby blurts out, “She’s been drinking like a fish. ” I administer mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and as she comes to, she slaps my face, thinking I’m being fresh. Nearby, a woman is shaking as she tries to comfort her disabled child while trying to restrain her toddler, who has flown into a raging tantrum. I head for the rear galley and find the flight attendant sobbing on the jump seat. Her new husband has gotten another woman pregnant. After doing my best to console her, I make my way to the front to check on the unaccompanied child in the front. On the way, I overhear a man tell his teenage son he’ll never amount to anything. I pass the prisoner and his armed escort, two men arguing, the woman with the black eye and broken arm, the pastor seated behind the Satan worshipper or the witch—I don’t know which—the man dying of AIDS, the celebrity who is seated by the runaway, and the lead singer for the rock group, Kiss, who happens to be seated by the anxious businessman who has just been laid off. I finally reach the young girl. Her face is beet red and tears are streaming down as she tries to catch her breath. “What’s wrong?” I whisper. “My parents are divorced,” she says while sobbing. I miss my mom and my new mother doesn’t want me and I don’t want her. I just want to go home.”
So I go to the cockpit and I say, “Captain, Sir, I’m overwhelmed by people who need help.” With a gentle, easy smile, He reminds me of my training in my manual. “Circumstances often require you to seek help from others on board.”
Time is running out, so again I grab the microphone and take my stance at the front. “Excuse me, but ladies and gentlemen, is there a minister or a counselor on board? How about a parent who can lend some encouragement? If there’s anyone who has ever been set free from prison, from an addiction, or if you have learned how to love yourself and others in spite of the mistakes of your parent or your stepparent, could you please come forward? And if you have peace in the midst of your illness or your family’s illness . . . if your spouse has hurt you, but you are both okay now, could you please come as well? The prodigals, too. If you left home but you’ve come back to your earthly or heavenly father . . . Even the younger people—teenagers, children, anyone—please come . . . I have the mike here waiting for you.”
One by one, they come as they line up to wait their turn at the microphone. Throughout the cabin, the people begin to put away their books, laptops and headphones, their eyes transfixed on those that have come forward.
After working for 16 years as a flight attendant, Co-founder and Founding Editor Anne Buck helped create Reach Out Columbia! magazine as a vehicle for people to minister to each other. Today, she says to Christians throughout the Midlands and beyond, “People are hurting. Please, come gather under one “paper roof.” I have the pages here waiting for you.”
And so a magazine was born . . .
