30,000 Feet & Nowhere to Run

Somewhere Between “Remember Me” and “Don’t Lose Heart”

Jesus and airplane rides.

It’s like He knows this is one sure-fire way to get my attention. No distractions. No escape. No running. I’m quite literally stuck in a seat thousands of feet above the ground.

Sometimes I picture Jesus taking me by the shoulders, looking straight into my eyes and saying, “Talk to Me. Tell Me how you’re feeling. No filter.” And on this flight, I couldn’t filter it even if I tried.

We were flying home from Delaware after attending a wedding. It had been a beautiful, sweet celebration of a couple dearly loved—not only by us, but by the community surrounding them.

By the time we boarded the plane, I was tired and sleepy. I had planned to watch a few episodes of a silly Hallmark series, only to discover that I had forgotten to download them before the wheels went up. I just needed something to listen to while I fell asleep. So, after scrolling through American Airlines’ movie selection, I landed on Coco.

I should have remembered what that movie does to me.

The first time I saw Coco was during that first year after Joshua died. Near the end of the movie, Miguelito sings “Remember Me” to Mama Coco.

I remember leaving the theater afterward and finding a bench outside. I sat down and completely fell apart. I sobbed hysterically. I couldn’t compose myself. I don’t remember how long I sat there crying. All I remember is that I could not stop.

My son was gone, and the grief was still so new that there were moments when it felt impossible to survive the weight of missing him. Years later, sitting on an airplane, that same scene found me again.

Miguelito pulled out his guitar and began singing to Mama Coco.

“Remember me.”

And once again, it re-slit my soul. I felt as though my son were singing those words to me.

Remember me.

As if I ever could forget.

“Each time you hear a sad guitar
Know that I’m with you the only way that I can be.”

I sat there choking back tears while everyone around me carried on with their flight. And there was nowhere for me to go. No room to walk away and collect myself. No bench outside a theater where I could sit and sob until the tears finally stopped.

Just an airplane seat, the ache of missing my son, and God.

I miss him—and the future we lost with him.

He should still be here.

And sitting there in the heartbreak and disappointment of it all, I said what I was feeling.

I hate this life.

Those words are hard to admit. Because I have a beautiful life, filled with people I love and more than I could ever need or want. And there are still days I hate it.

Not because my life isn’t good.

Because my son isn’t in it.

I just told Him the truth. And then, defeated, I whispered, “I need you, Holy Spirit. I can’t do this without You.”

When I pray, I often talk to the Father or to Jesus. But that day, I specifically needed the Holy Spirit. I needed His strength because mine was gone. I needed the One Jesus called the Comforter to meet me in a place where I could not comfort myself.

Nothing about my circumstances changed. Joshua was still gone.

But as the plane began its descent, in true God fashion, a lyric from Cory Asbury’s Water and Dust caught my attention:

“He’s got your hand
Don’t lose heart, child…
And when everything is falling apart
Don’t lose heart.”

I began that movie hearing Remember Me. I ended the flight hearing Don’t Lose Heart.

And somewhere between the two, I felt as though God had taken the seat beside me. I pictured Him draping His arm around my shoulders—not explaining the loss, not asking me to minimize what I was feeling, not trying to make something unbearable sound beautiful. Just sitting with me in it.

The first time Coco broke me, I sat on a bench and sobbed until I had nothing left. Years later, it broke me open again. The grief was still grief. The missing was still missing. And I was still a mother desperately longing for her son.

But this time, from somewhere inside that same unbearable ache, I knew whom to run to.

Holy Spirit.

Maybe that is what some of the holiest moments with God look like. Not the absence of heartbreak, but His presence right there in the middle of it.

And when I have nothing left, I hear the gentlest whisper:‍ ‍Don’t lose heart.