“In God We Trust”

I was sitting in a tiny airport terminal high in the Rocky Mountains that afternoon, waiting to board a connecting flight to Los Angeles. We’d had some bad weather that day (which was to be expected, given the time of year), and all flights had been delayed for several hours. I found myself sitting in an uncomfortable chair amidst a sea of other stranded passengers, all in a similar state of irritation. Little children were running wild, stirring up chaos, and their parents were either exhausted or fit to be tied. We all just wanted to get home.

There was nothing we could do but wait out the storm, though, so I waited. The novel I had brought to read gripped me for a while, but eventually I put it down. It was just too difficult to concentrate in the terminal – the noise of my fellow travelers and overhead announcements constantly interrupted my trains of thought. This tiny whatever-its-name-was town might only have three outbound flights a day, but you would never have guessed that from the quantity of messages that blared out overhead.

I put my book back in my briefcase and looked outside. Through the dirty plate-glass window I could see the outline of our jet, ready for takeoff. It was hard to see the plane through the snowstorm that raged outside; I could see ice beginning to form on its wings. The sky was dark and brooding, and snow was piling up rapidly on the airport’s single runway. I began to wonder if I would be departing today at all. Did a town this obscure even have a hotel?

A booming voice suddenly interrupted me. “Excuse me, sir, excuse me,” someone said. I turned around to see who had spoken and saw a strange-looking individual staring intently at me. The man was small – no bigger than 5 feet tall – but enormously fat, dressed in a large brown overcoat, and was as bald as he could be. He was clutching a bright green handbag of some kind (green was definitely not his color) and seemed puzzled about something.

“Excuse me,” he repeated, after he saw that he had my attention, “but is here the flight to Los Angels?”

“What’s that?” I said. “Oh – Los Angeles – yes, this is the right gate. But the flight has been delayed. It probably won’t be leaving for several hours – or maybe several days, given the weather outside.”

“Good,” the man boomed, evidently very pleased. “I sit and rest, then. It has been a long day.” With that, he plopped into the chair beside me. After he had sat down he reached his large hand out to me. “I am Charlie. I go to Los Angels, to see my brother.”

“Nice to meet you, Charlie. I’m a bored and irritated airline passenger, waiting for the ice age to end so that I can leave this town and get back to a place where the sun actually shines.”

“That is wonderful, so wonderful,” he said enthusiastically. “I am so happy for you.”

I shook my head.

“I am new in your country,” Charlie explained. “There is much new to me here. Your country is not like mine.”

“Where are you from?” I asked him.

“Guldovia,” Charlie replied.

“Ah. Never been there.”

“You should go sometime – it is very nice. We get much snow there.”

“Sounds – enchanting,” I said, as I stared at the snowstorm out the window. “Imagine getting to see snow again.”

“It is delightful,” Charlie enthused. “The snow – I love it. It is so beautiful! So white, and clean, and cold.”

“I’m glad it excites you, Charlie. You’re going to be seeing a lot of it in the next few hours.”

He sat there silently for a few minutes, and then he spoke to me again. “Excuse me, excuse me, but I must ask a question.”

“Ok,” I said slowly. “What’s on your mind?”

He opened his green handbag and ruffled through it for a few minutes. “Your country is not same as mine. There are many things – ah! – here he is.” With that, he pulled a five-dollar-bill out of his purse.

“Do all men carry purses in Guldovia?” I asked him.

“These bags – are they not good?” Charlie replied, beaming. “So nice, and helpful. The colors – they are beautiful!”

“I suppose,” I said slowly. Charlie seemed to be lost in a world all his own.

“So, fellow traveler,” he said, “this is one of your currencies, is it not?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s a $5 bill.”

“Right, that is so. But here – right there – it says words. What does it say?”

I looked at it. “Oh. It says ‘In God We Trust’. All of our currency says that.”

“Yes, yes. It is so, I have seen it. But – what does it mean? It is not written so on our currency.”

I shrugged. “I guess it’s our national motto. It’s a reflection of the fact that America trusts in God.”

Charlie looked puzzled. “Trust in God? How is that so?”

“Well, I guess it means – hmmm – that we believe that God exists and that God will step in and help us when we’re in trouble. We believe that God is watching over us and will make sure that things go okay.”

“But why?” Charlie asked.

“Oh, because that’s what God does – he makes sure that the good guys always win. With God running things we don’t have anything to worry about.”

“So your country – they all believe in God?”

“Eh, not really,” I said. “This isn’t referring to any particular deity. People believe in their own gods. Some believe there are lots of them, and some people don’t believe in any supreme being. Other people think that they are god.”

Charlie stared at the bill intently, and thought for a few moments. “So your peoples do not all believe in God,” he said.

“That’s right. America is a very diverse country. Lots of people believe all kinds of different things. You’re free to believe anything you want here – for the most part.”

“But your peoples believe there is something,” Charlie paused a moment. “Something out there in the sky that will make sure your country has many sunny days, so that travelers are not stranded in airports and little children can have good meals to eat.”

“I guess you can put it that way,” I said.

“I think I understand,” Charlie said at last. “We have this in our country too. Only we call it another name.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. In our country this is called wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking!” I said, taken aback. “There’s nothing wishful about it.”

“Your peoples believe that some person you do not know will be your fairy godmother,” Charlie explained patiently. “Maybe God likes you. Maybe God does not. Maybe God wants something from you. You don’t really know. You all just hope that everything will go good like magic, like the little children who believe that Santa Claus will bring then gifts.”

“Our God isn’t anything like Santa!” I protested.

“Outside the airport is our plane, yes? One day, perhaps, spring will come and it will take us to Los Angels. But the pilot of the plane will only help the ones that board the plane and let him do his job. All those that do not board will be left to fend for themselves.”

“There are many ways to get to Los Angeles,” I said.

“But the pilot – he will only fly those who board his plane. Those who are not on board when the plane departs – they will be left behind. But your peoples believe that God will help anyone and everyone, no matter what. Even those who do not get on the plane. Even those who do not like God. Even those who do not want God’s help. Even those who think he is not real.”

“Of course,” I said. “That’s what God does.”

“In my country – that is what we call wishful thinking,” Charlie said, as he put the bill back in his purse.