In the days of my youth, my parents had quite a big collection of Peanuts comic books. I'm pretty sure I devoured every single one to the point that I knew many storylines by heart. One of my favorites was a series that included a butterfly landing on Peppermint Patty's nose. She immediately jumps to the conclusion that there's a meaning behind this, and after much guesswork and analyzation, she decides it was an angel from heaven, sent to give her a kiss. For some reason, I always liked that image, that God might take the time to lean down from heaven and choose me specifically to spend a kiss on.
Nine years ago, I was sitting on a plan leaving Japan, and I was just so incredibly disappointed that our last drive through the country had not afforded me a sighting of Mount Fuji. I'd been told the airport was near it, but skyscrapers and smog had blocked my view. "Oh well," I thought, "guess I'll just have to come back." And that is when my seatmate elbowed me, pointed out her window, and said, "Look! Mount Fuji." It was perfectly illuminated against the backdrop of a rising sun, sticking out above the clouds. And it was my first named Nose Kiss from God.
(Note: none of these pictures are my own, but they're closest to the views I had.)
In 2007, I got to spend a week in Australia for my brother's wedding. The lack of vacation time and major distances between cities Down Under meant from the start that I would not be able to visit Sydney. I had to resign myself to that fact that the Opera House and Harbor would have to be saved for a future visit, even though my plan had a short lay-over in this famous city. Once again, just after take-off, I happened to glance out my left window (from the row I had all to myself), and there it was: the Sydney Opera House, perched on the edge of the harbor and sparkling in all its glory. My second Nose Kiss.
When I arrived in Quito, Ecuador for six months, I was a little disconcerted to find out my new home was perched on the edge of a volcano. But everyone was quick to assure me that there were many more dangerous volcanoes in other parts of the country, and they proceeded to name a few. One recurring name was Mount Chimborazo, supposedly one of the most perfectly cylindrical-cone shaped volcanoes you've ever seen and "technically" the highest point on the planet if one actually measured distance from the core of the earth and not sea level. (Chimborazo is almost exactly on the equator.) I spent the next six months trying to get a glimpse of this mountain on my various travels up and down the country. Alas, the clouds obscured my attempts every time without fail. My last day was March 18, 2009, and as my plane turned north to return me to Minnesota, you guessed it, it took us right past the most perfect, the most stunning, and the most clear peak of Mount Chimborazo. God and I shared a sweet moment of tears and thanks. My third Nose Kiss.
I was feeling pretty special. Three nose kisses on three continents, no less. It isn't as if I had been keeping a list of things I wanted to see in the world and hoped to spot from a plane window, but on my long flight across the Atlantic two weeks ago, God gave me my fourth Nose Kiss. I've only visited New York City once and had all of 2 hours, which barely afforded me time to see Central Park and run down to Times Square. I had flown in and out of Newark several times before, but I guess the seat and direction has just never been so perfect. This time, the world aligned, and I got to stare at the elusive Statue of Liberty for a full five minutes before our plane descended too low and hit the tarmac. But it was enough time for me to pour out my thanks and appreciation once again.
I realize these stories may seem silly to many and not all that special, but I'm amazed at the way God knows the path to my heart: in tender moments we share seeing the world together. I think he likes me. :-)
