The other day, I caught a flight to Fort Myers to do a little teaching for Founders Ministries in Cape Coral—a couple of days on cultural apologetics for their Institute of Public Theology. As I buckled in to my SWA seat, with ritual/performative mask in place, I spied a disturbing seat-back insert declaring this a Boeing 747-800. Wasn’t that the one they call MAX? Maybe. I couldn’t remember which was which. I knew the MAX had had trouble—a couple of horrific crashes on takeoff— and that Boeing had had to pull it offline for adjustments. Was this one of the adjusted versions put back into service? I figured that, if it were, then they must have taken great pains to be sure they’d gotten things right. But still, I reflexively and quietly uttered the imperative, “Let ‘er eat,” as we rolled down the runway.

Turns out, I’d gotten things wrong. This wasn’t a retooled MAX, but the tried-and-true, regular 737-800. So let’s turn to the expression, “Let ‘er eat.” Where in the world did I get that? Well, it pictures a horse in harness with his feed bag strapped under his mouth, there to insure he gets enough nutrition to keep going strong. And I first heard it on a mission trip to the interior of Brazil, where we occasionally used some sketchy planes to hop the jungle from one place to another, crossing tributaries of the Amazon. I think of one flight in particular. We were making our way in a little VW bus (a “kombi”) to São Félix do Xingu, but our road was blocked by a flooded stream, so we made our way back to the nearest village, Tucumã. There we found a few mining-supply, single-engine planes at the end of a little dirt strip, and we hired one without seats, except for the pilot’s. We noticed the ruins of several of this plane’s cousins toppled off into the adjoining tree line, just as we noticed the pilot’s hand tremor and a rank of tall trees at the end of the runway.

I took a Polaroid of my fellow passengers standing by the wing—a Brazilian pastor who’d never been in a plane and two young men from our church, a welder and a doctor, both with fine families back in the states. The pastor looks pensive, and the other two, good to go—a thumbs up from the welder, an uplifted hand to heaven from the doctor. And so it was that we clambered into that little death trap. I cherish that photo since it so perfectly represents the spirit of missionary adventure and equanimity in the face of peril for the sake of the gospel. 

As our host fired up the engine, turned onto the dirt strip (which, I was told, used to be Main Street), and got into his run toward liftoff, the welder, as I recall, uttered a hopeful, even cheerful, “Let ‘er eat!”  And eat she did, clearing the trees with not so much as a nicked leaf.

Long time ago. Nearly forty years. Yet that prayerful expression seems hardwired into my soul, from whatever runway we’re launched.