Anti-terrorism Measure

We were at the airport on Sunday, headed out of town for a few days. At the security gates, we went through the usual procedures: we removed our shoes and belts, had all our luggage x-rayed, and walked through metal detectors. Somehow we sidestepped the full-body scan and pat-down. Despite all the talk-show jokes to the contrary, everyone was courteous, TSA staffers and passengers alike. The line flowed at a slow but steady pace.

On board the airplane, a flight attendant asked for everyone’s cooperation. The plane was full and there were families traveling with small children. Joe and the kids were on one side of the aisle and I was on the other. A mother of two came towards us, burdened with two bulging backpacks and a tired, drapey toddler. Her ten-year old son followed behind, pulling a suitcase. “We’re here,” she said to him, nodding towards the two empty seats on my right.

It’s a pleasure to watch a professional work. In less than 90 seconds the mother had slipped past me and settled her family into the crammed row. Quickly she assembled a bottle for her toddler, whose eyes were heavy with fatigue. She saw the wave of sleep approaching and intended to catch it. The mother shifted her little boy into a position on her lap that she could sustain for the next two hours. She rocked her son in a rhythm unbroken even by the pilot’s sudden and blaring announcements about the vagaries of our flight.

After ten minutes in the air, I looked over to my neighbors in the row. The toddler was asleep, and his big brother, too. The boys leaned on their mother in complete trust. She was the ultimate anti-terrorism measure, all-seeing and perceptive beyond the capabilities of the most sophisticated imaging machines. Love, secured well-before a child’s earliest memory, and guarded safely at 30,000 feet.