She was sitting on the opposite side of the aisle two rows up from
me. I could see her, not because I got an aisle seat, or because of the bright
yellow sweater she was wearing, but because of the furtive rocking back and
forth that went on pretty much the entire flight.
And I do mean the entire flight. From the minute she stowed away
her carry-on and sat down, this woman began to rock and mutter under her
breath. At first I couldn’t catch what she was saying, but as the intensity
increased, and the volume along with it, I realised that she was praying. She
must have been praying. That is the only logical explanation for phrases like
“rout the enemy”, “put the devil’s plans to flight”, “grant us safe passage, oh
God”.
When she was finished, I whispered ‘amen’ too. Couldn’t hurt. My
parents raised me to reverence and fear God and the godly, in all their various
manifestations.
But it wasn’t over. The flight took off, and everyone settled
down, and I got into the novel I had brought along. Then the muttering started
again. My Jamaican prayer warrior had decided to have her own little prayer and
worship session right there on the plane in her seat. The rocking resumed, and
for much of the flight to Panama, she was a mass of bobbing jherri curls and
upraised hands.
Her eyes were tightly shut the entire time. I know her eyes were
shut because one of her legs was in the passage, and when the air hostess was
trying to pass her with the serving tray, the man sitting beside her had to tap
her on the shoulder and point out that she needed to move the obstructing foot
so the air hostess could pass.
She obliged, closed her eyes, and the rocking and head-bobbing and
chants resumed: “Jeeeeee-suuuuuus! Jeeeee-suuuuus!” She was whispering. But I
could hear.
When the plane touched down and we were taxi-ing to our final
stop, my prayer warrior lifted her hands (fully, up to this point they had been
at half-mast) and said, “Thank you, Puppa Jesus! Mighty deliverer! Yuh do it
again!” And clapped. Then looked to her neighbour and pumped a fist, as if to
say, ‘Yes, our team won!’
It made me smile. Because Jamaican quirks are what they are no
matter where on the planet we are. While we were exiting the plane, I watched
the jherri curls and yellow shirt disappear into the crowd of disembarking
passengers. Who is to say that beyond the bright yellow of her blouse, that
prayer warrior hadn’t, in the way she knew how, just added a little light to
all our lives?
