When the Clouds Finally Break

A Reflection on the Journey to Heaven from 35,000 Feet

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THIS EARTHLY LIFE is filled with countless mundane, routine, and often trivial tasks. Yet when we have “ears to hear and eyes to see” (Matthew 13:16), these otherwise commonplace duties can yield important insights when we least expect them.

That’s how it has always been for me, at least when I’m paying attention. The Lord often teaches life lessons through the outwardly insignificant and humdrum activities of everyday life.

One such lesson came to me while flying to Phoenix for a speaking engagement.

Columbus, Ohio, where I live, was damp and chilly on the morning of my departure. The skies were gray and overcast, and I was really looking forward to escaping the dreary bleakness of those leaden skies into the sunny, wild-blue yonder of the Arizona desert.

So I’m seated on the plane, waiting for takeoff. I prefer an aisle seat, but this morning I find myself next to the window, where I have a nice view of the dismal clouds.

We take off, and the plane quickly climbs through them toward what I hope will be “a comfortable cruising altitude,” where my mind will be free to move about the universe.

Gazing absentmindedly out the window, I watch the clouds fall away beneath me as we ascend. The plane glides upward through the lowest cloud layer, and we enter a clear and significantly brighter gap between cloud decks, bright enough for me to see a fair distance away, although there’s really nothing to see except more clouds. I take in this view for a few minutes before the sky begins to darken and become obscured as the plane rises through another layer of clouds.

Nothing but gray for the next few minutes, and rather bumpy, as passing through clouds typically causes turbulence. Nothing unusual there. We’re rising higher, and still all I can see is a wall of gray, formless clouds.

In a similar way, the Christian life often includes turbulence we do not expect. As Saint Peter wrote,

“Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery ordeal which comes upon you to prove you, as though something strange were happening to you. But rejoice in so far as you share Christ’s sufferings, that you may also rejoice and be glad when his glory is revealed” (1 Peter 4:12–13).

Suddenly, we slip into yet another clear zone below yet another deck of clouds. This time, though, I can see for miles and miles. It’s far brighter up here, though I still can’t see the azure blue sky I’ve been expecting.

The scene also reminds me of Saint Paul’s words:

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood” (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Craning my neck to look upward, I see yet another layer of clouds above us, this one lighter and thinner than those below. A few minutes later, we plunge upward into those clouds, suffused with light and hints of blue peeking through here and there.

That’s when it occurs to me how similar this flight is to the spiritual life.

This simple metaphor stirs my soul with thoughts about my own personal journey toward heaven. I know that “somewhere up there” is the clear blue sky, heaven, where I want to be. Where I belong. Where God created me to be happy with Him forever.

There’s nothing I want more than to someday, when my appointed time here on earth is concluded, escape the gray, dreary clouds, the mist, and the turbulence of this imperfect earthly life and enter into the warm, tranquil light above in the heavenly life to come.

To get there, though, I am reminded that I must pass through who knows how many more cloud layers that may loom above me, between where I am now and where I am headed.

The great spiritual masters, such as Saint Augustine, Saint Francis, Saint Teresa of Avila, Saint John of the Cross, Saint Catherine of Siena, Saint Francis de Sales, and Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, all tell us the same thing: our upward path to heaven leads through the various stages of purgation and then illumination before it finally arrives at the blessed union of love with God for which we were made and to which he ceaselessly beckons us.

“You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”
— Saint Augustine, Confessions, I.1 (397–400)

“Start by doing what is necessary; then do what is possible; and suddenly you are doing the impossible.”
— Saint Francis of Assisi, attributed in Fioretti di San Francesco

“The closer one approaches to God, the simpler one becomes.”
— Saint Teresa of Ávila, Interior Castle, Sixth Mansions

“Do small things with great love.”
— Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, reported in Last Conversations, July 1897

Like you, no doubt, I’ve passed through any number of dark and difficult “clouds” in my life thus far, and like you, I know well life’s turbulence, ambiguity, and unpredictability. Many a time I’ve thought to myself, “Hey! I’ve made it!” only to realize with a sigh, “No. More clouds ahead. I still have a good way yet to go.”

Now that I’m sixty-five, and I can see much more clearly that I’m nearing the end of the runway of my earthly life, these exhortations of the saints mean even more to me. They seem clearer and more real than before—and more urgent.

One day, sooner or later, those who love God will pass irrevocably beyond the interminable clouds of this earthly life and find themselves enveloped within the splendorous light and glory of heaven, which is marvelously, infinitely better than anything even Arizona can offer.

Copyright © 2011-2026 Patrick Madrid. All rights reserved. All text, images, and other original content are the property of the author. Adapted and expanded from my blogpost “The Flight.”

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