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Airplanes
I am really scared of airplanes. You see my mom has a thing with Disneyworld, and basically we went to Disneyworld every christmas and summer. But then we didn't have enough money to keep going. Now we do, and I haven't been on an airplane since last summer. I am REALLY scared. I just have a bad feeling about it. I have no say whatsoever in if I want to go or not, so that's not an option. If anyone could help me calm down...or tell me anything...that would be great.
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Maybe give some free advice about: Random Weirdos?
hey hey hey, it's ok, i mean we all take risks now and again. Hell we could wake up dead tomarrow? but i understand im a lil afriad to die in an airplane crash too. Just be brave and pray, the good lord shall protect you and all his children. Just be aware that god is there for you and everyone. Don't be afirad and be strong.
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Dont worry about if it helps some airplanes have the instructions in cha-cha form so it will make you laugh so dont worry about planes are fine
just have fun and think about disney on your way you'll be fine
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Remember this airplanes are more safer these day so if something happens wich is like a 1 out of 100,000,000 chance trust me nothings going to happen.
Hoped I helped!
Rate and send feedback!!!
~!~LSU_TIGERS2695~!~
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Here's a thought, you are more likely to die of cancer from smoking then a planecrash.
Also that more people die ever month from smoking then all airplane deaths.
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relax everything will be ok. dont think down about it. go on the airplane and relax take a book or a cd players or w.e with you and relax listen to music, read, or go to sleep during the trip. trust me everyhting will be ok.
*~Stephanie~*
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The monks of St. Anthony's remain wonderfully Dark Age in their outlook and conversation. Exorcisms, miraculous healings and ghostly apparitions of long-dead saints are to the monks what doorstep milk deliveries are to suburban Londoners - unremarkable everyday occurrences that would never warrant a passing mention if foreigners did not always seem to be so inexplicably amazed by them:
"See up there?" said Abuna Dioscorus, as I was finishing my egg. He pointed to the space between the two towers of the abbey church. "In June 1987 in the middle of the night our father St. Antony appeared there hovering on a cloud of shining light."
"You saw this?" I asked.
"No," said Fr. Dioscorus. "I'm short-sighted."
He took off his spectacles to show me the thickness of the glass.
"I can barely see the abbot when I sit beside him at supper," he said. "But many other fathers saw the apparition. On one side of St. Antony stood St. Mark the Hermit and on the other was Abuna Yustus."
"Abuna Yustus?"
"He is one of our fathers. He used to be the sacristan."
"So what was he doing up there?"
"He had just departed this life."
"Oh," I said. "I see."
"Officially he's not a saint yet, but I'm sure he will be soon. His canonization is up for discussion at the next Coptic synod. His relics have been the cause of many miracles: blind children have been made to see, the lame have got up from their wheelchairs..."
"All the usual sort of stuff."
"Exactly. But you won't believe this-"
Here Fr. Dioscorus lowered his voice into a whisper.
"You won't believe this but we had some visitors from Europe two years ago - Christians, some sort of Protestants - who said they didn't believe in the power of relics!"
The monk stroked his beard, wide-eyed with disbelief.
"No," he continued. "I'm not joking. I had to take the Protestants aside and explain that we believe that St. Antony and all the fathers have not died, that they live with us, continually protecting us and looking after us. When they are needed - when we go to their graves and pray to their relics - they appear and sort out our problems."
"Can the monks see them?"
"Who? Protestants?"
"No. These deceased fathers."
"Abuna Yustus is always appearing," said Fr. Dioscorus matter-of-factly. "In fact one of the fathers had a half-hour conversation with him the day before yesterday. And of course St. Antony makes fairly regular appearances - although he is very busy these days answering prayers all over the world. But even when we cannot see the departed fathers we can always feel them. And besides - there are many other indications that they are with us."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "What sort of indications?"
"Well, take last week for instance. The Bedouin from the desert are always bringing their sick to us for healing. Normally it is something quite simple: we let them kiss a relic, give them an aspirin and send them on their way. But last week they brought in a small girl who was possessed by a devil. We took the girl into the church, and as it was the time for vespers one of the fathers went off to ring the bell for prayers. When he saw this the devil inside the girl began to cry: 'Don't ring the bell! Please don't ring the bell!' We asked him why not. 'Because,' replied the devil, 'when you ring the bell it's not just the living monks who come into the church: all the holy souls of the fathers join with you too, as well as great multitudes of angels and archangels. How can I remain in the church when that happens? I'm not staying in a place like that.' At that moment the bell began to ring, the girl shrieked and the devil left her! "
Fr. Dioscorus clicked his fingers: "Just like that. So you see," he said. "That proves it."
The Coptic monks who live in St. Antony's today are kind, gentle men, much more modest and reasonable than the bristling Greek brigands of Mar Saba or their sometimes fanatical brethren on Mount Athos. This evening I had a long conversation with Fr. Dioscorus in the refectory of the guest quarters. As the last light was fading gradually from the sky outside, I asked him about his motives for becoming a monk and why he had left the comforts of Alexandria for the harsh climate of the deserts.
"Many people think we come to the desert to punish ourselves, because it is hot and dry and difficult to live in," said Fr. Dioscorus. "But it's not true. We come because we love it here."
"What is there to love about the desert?"
"We love the peace, the silence. When you really want to talk to someone you want to sit together in a quiet place and talk, not to be in the midst of a crowd of other people. How can you talk properly in a crowd? So it is with us. We come here because we want to be alone with our God. As St. Antony once said: 'Let your heart be silent, then God will speak.' "
"But you do seem to want to punish yourselves deliberately: the hot, coarse robes you wear, the long Lenten fasts you all undertake..."
"Ah," said Fr. Dioscorus, "But you see fasting is not punishment. It is a tool, not an end in itself. It is not easy to communicate with God on a full stomach. When you have had a big meal you cannot concentrate your mind. You want to go to sleep, not to sit in church praying. To pray successfully it is better to be a little hungry."
"But doing without possessions: isn't that a punishment?"
"No: it's a choice. For myself I have begun to get rid of many of the things which clutter up my cell. Last week I threw out my chair. I don't need it. Now I sit on the floor. Why should I bother with extra food, with spare clothes, with unnecessary furniture? All you need is a piece of bread and enough covering for the body. The less you have, the less you have to distract you from God. Do you understand?"
I smiled, uncertainly.
"Well just look around this room. When I am in here I think that the chair is in the wrong place, I must move it. Or may be that the lamp is out of oil, I must fill it. Or...or that that shutter is broken and I must get it mended. But in the desert there is just sand. You don't think of anything else; there is nothing to disturb you. It should be the same in a monk's cell. The less there is, the easier it is to talk to God."
"Do you find it easy?"
"It is never easy, but with practice I find it less difficult," said Dioscorus. "The spiritual life is like a ladder. Every day if you are disciplined and make the effort you find you will rise up, understand a little better, find it a little easier to concentrate, find that your mind is wandering less and less. When you pray alone in your cell without distraction you feel as if you are in front of God, as if nothing is coming to you except from God. When you succeed - if you do manage to banish distractions and communicate directly with God - then the compensation outweighs any sufferings or hardships. You feel as if something, which was dim, is suddenly lighted for you. You feel full of light and pleasure: it is like a blinding charge of electricity..."
"But you don't have to come into the middle of the desert to find an empty room free of distractions. You can find that anywhere: in Cairo, or Alex, or London..."
"What you say is true," said Fr. Dioscorus with a smile. "You can pray anywhere. After all, God is everywhere so you can find him everywhere."
The monk gestured to the darkening sand dunes outside:
"But in the desert," he said, "in the pure clean atmosphere, in the silence - there you can find yourself. And unless you begin to know yourself how can you even begin to search for God?"
You wanted somebody to tell you something that would calm you down. Print that out, take it with you and think about it.
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♥ if you chew gum when you are taking off and landing it helps your ears. Stay busy. Try sleeping, or reading, or knitting, coloring. Anything to keep your mind off of knowing that you are on a plane. Don't sit in the window seat. Try sitting on the aisle seat. Good luck. Hope I helped. xoxo
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