Below the plane, I saw ice. I hadn’t paid attention to the flight path. But when I looked down, I saw ice and realized we were over the northwest coast of Indiana.

I looked forward and saw the skyline of Chicago, clustered on the edge of the ice. I picked out the John Hancock building. It’s my landmark for Andrew and Allie. They live a couple blocks to the west.

I looked back, across the shoreline, across the dunes and the hills and the mills and the fields. There was a haze. The sun was bright that direction. But I realized that if I looked hard enough, I might be able to see the golden dome of Notre Dame. It’s a landmark for Hope. She lives a couple miles to the east.

I could see, almost, into Andrew and Allie’s living room. I could see, almost, Hope’s dorm. Of course, her room is on the other side, but she was in class anyway, studying sociology, people in groups.

It was a cool dad moment. From the right altitude, I could see our kids. Two hours apart, two and four hours from us, but all almost visible. All clearly seen in my heart.

I thought, “Is this a God’s eye view?”

I don’t like giving God physical altitude. I try not to talk about the man upstairs or anything close to that. That creates a separation that troubles me a bit.

At the same time, I got a glimpse of the kind of altitude that would make it possible to see multiple kids at the same time. To be aware of their needs. To consider how to bring them together.

Of course, the kids couldn’t see me. They weren’t sure where I was. But I was watching. With great delight and affirmation.