Living Life in A Transit Lounge

Transition. 

That’s been a keyword in my life for nearly a year now. 

But from what? 

To what? 

I am writing this from a transit lounge. Everyone here is not where they want to be. There’s food and wine and sparkling water, along with a few places to sit. A lot of folks might get very comfortable here. But you can’t stay. You have to move on. You have to get to the place you’re going, whether it’s some far-flung, new, and exotic destination.  

Or simply home. 

It’s loud. It’s very international. There are a dozen languages reaching my ears at the moment. Along with clinking dishes and a coffee machine. There are showers. 

A transit lounge is better than spending the night somewhere in the bowels of the airport. 

But this isn’t my final destination. 

Not even close. 

Sometimes there are seasons of life that essentially transit lounges. Jobs that are only for a season to rest and recover, sometimes heal and learn. But at the end of the night, it’s still a transit lounge and the journey toward home must go on. 

Transition is necessary, but it’s not final.