Yesterday, it was somewhere above the Atlantic Sea, maybe higher, maybe closer to heaven, that I noticed it. A door. Closed. Sealed. Locked tighter than the vaults of the Reserve Bank. Behind that door, I was told, sat the man in charge—our pilot.

Now, I’ve never seen him. Neither his cap nor his moustache, not even his shoes. Some passengers claim they caught a glimpse when they boarded, but I didn’t. And yet, despite never setting eyes on him, I knew he was there.

How did I know? Because every time the plane hit turbulence, and my neighbour clutched the armrest like it was his mother-in-law’s throat, the pilot steadied the aircraft, and we glided back into calm skies. Because the console in front of me showed the little plane icon inching closer and closer to my city. Because the air-hostesses—those cheerful angels, dressed in their brown uniforms —moved down the aisles without a trace of panic, confident their captain had things under control.

It struck me, thirty thousand feet up, how similar this is to my everyday life. Behind another closed door sits Someone else I’ve never seen. No cap, no uniform, not even an ID card, but still in command. Yes, God.

I can’t see Him either. Skeptics shake their heads like stubborn passengers demanding to see the cockpit before they believe. But I don’t need to see. The evidence is everywhere—in the way I’m guided through stormy situations, in the way I’m kept from crashing when life rattles, in the way my journey is always brought a little closer to its right destination.

Like the pilot, He doesn’t pop out every hour to assure me He’s at the controls. He doesn’t need to. The way life flies is enough.

And what a comfort it is! Imagine if the door swung open midair and the pilot walked out for a selfie. We’d scream! We don’t need him in the aisle; we need him at the controls. Likewise, God doesn’t need to be visible on demand; His place is behind the closed door, guiding, steering, holding us steady.

I smiled as the seatbelt sign lit up and we prepared to land. The ground came up to meet us, wheels kissed the runway, and the cabin erupted in relieved sighs. Not for the hostess who served coffee, nor for the console that displayed our progress, but for the man behind the closed door.

And so it is with life. One day, when the journey’s over, when the wheels touch down on that final runway, we’ll understand better. Until then, what faith it gives me—knowing that though I don’t see Him, though I can’t walk in through that cockpit door, my Pilot is there. Always flying me through the skies of life….!

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