The lyrics dance in my head as I board a plane in Minneapolis-St. Paul. I seldom travel by air but, when I do, I listen to, Is this the Way to Amarillo?, on the flight home.
            I tap my toe to the song's lively beat and look forward to touching down at Amarillo’s one-room airport. After grabbing my bag, I’ll take a deep breath of feedlot stench as I head to the parking garage.
            Dreaming dreams of Amarillo.
            I don’t cotton to cities but I’m fond of Amarillo. It’s small and offers little by way of attractions, but its name rings in the lyrics of lots of country songs. I suspect the reason lies in its the way its soft syllables dance off the tongue and sashay their way into the rhythm of George Strait’s, Amarillo by Morning and Alan Jackson’s If  You Ever Come Back to Amarillo. The vowels flow like tears when Tim McGraw bids farewell to his Amarillo sweetheart in Just to See You Smile. Their gentle sound falls like rain on plowed earth in Jason Aldean’s tribute to the American farmer in Amarillo Sky and it sparkles in the eyes of a girl—from Amarillo—in his hit, Flyover States.
            Technically, Amarillo is not my home, but it’s the diocese I serve and I claim it with pride. When a stranger inquires where I’m from, I reply, “Amarillo!” A friendly nod is the usual response.
            How could it be otherwise? Given the city’s location in cattle country and its melodic name, Amarillo can’t help but conjure up images of horses, rodeos, swing dancing and, of course, pretty girls.
 
            The plane banks right. Three thousand feet below, sunlight glints on the surface of playa lakes. Flat land spreads out like a Monopoly board. Irrigation circles alternate with square pastures. Hay bales and cattle pose like tokens waiting for the throw of dice.
             The aircraft lurches upward and, suddenly, we are soaring across an ocean of clouds. The celestial view recalls the recent feast of the Ascension of the Lord. I ponder the sacred event and wonder if, prior to departure, Jesus threw a parting glance at Galilee’s rocky terrain. Did he long to feel, one last time, the flow of the Jordan’s water across his skin? Did he ache to balance in his palm the gentle weight of his mother’s hand?
 
            A jolt of turbulence and I’m back in Seat A, Row 28.The stewardess reminds me to return my seat to its upright position.
            Midway through our descent, the plane swoops across Palo Duro Canyon. Green junipers and scrawny mesquite cling to its rugged rim. I scan the southward horizon, straining to catch of my hometown.
            Prepare for landing.
            I close my eyes and envision the porch of my house. I can’t wait to step inside and behold the crucifix on the wall, the worn sofa in the corner and the picture of my dad on the kitchen shelf.
            Outside the window, my horses will be grazing on blue stem grass and, at my feet, my gleeful dog will be jumping for joy.
            My heart. My home. 
            My hope. My hankering. My hunger for Heaven.