Breaking the Sound Barrier
- MS
- Nov 24
- 8 min read
They say a plane shakes the hardest right before it breaks the sound barrier. I didn’t know souls did too.
There are moments in life when everything inside you shakes, and you think, “This must be the end.” But sometimes—just sometimes—the shaking isn’t a sign to turn back. It’s the sign that you’re seconds away from breaking through. Right before clarity comes, confusion swirls. Right before rest arrives, your heart trembles. Right before you step into the beloved identity, every old identity screams for attention. And right before you break the spiritual sound barrier…your whole inner world feels like it might fall apart.
I used to think freedom was a moment — a breakthrough, an event, something you celebrate once and then frame like a certificate. But freedom, I’m learning, isn’t a trophy. It’s a sky. A place you enter again and again. A place you learn to trust. A place where Presence steadies your trembling hands on the controls until trembling turns into wonder.
And the strangest thing? The moment that changed everything for me didn’t happen in a church, or a conference, or a quiet corner with worship music playing softly. It happened in a fighter jet. With Jesus in the pilot seat. And me beside Him, buckled into a cockpit that smelled like metal, oxygen, and sky.
Dear heart, before we climb in, come closer a moment. This chapter isn’t about airplanes. It’s about leaving the gravity of who you used to be. It’s about the moment your old beliefs begin screaming “Come back!”
It’s about the shaking that happens right when you’re finally about to break through. If you’ve ever felt the pull between who you were and who you’re becoming…if you’ve ever felt the voice of safety trying to call you back…if you’ve ever wondered why peace feels like silence after a storm…
Then come with me. There’s a seat open beside Jesus. Strap in. We’re ascending.
The cockpit was warm with sunlight, switches glinting under the glow of morning sun.
I slid into the seat, heart pounding, nerves buzzing like electricity. Jesus climbed in beside me, completely calm, as if we were just going for a gentle afternoon drive. He wore aviator sunglasses — not ironically, but because He knew the sight of Him in them would make me laugh. It did.
He flipped one switch. Then another. Engines roared awake like a lion stretching, shaking dust off its mane.
He turned toward me, and He handed me the helmet. “Ready?” He asked, the corner of His mouth curving in that familiar way — playful, knowing, impossibly calm.
“Ready for what?” My voice was half-steady, half-hoping He’d say something gentle like a quiet ride or just a small flight over the water.
Instead, He said: “Freedom.”
The engines rumbled awake beneath us. A low, rolling thunder that vibrated through the metal and into my bones. The scent of jet fuel drifted up — sharp, bright, almost sweet. My fingers curled around the controls. Jesus nodded once. And then — without waiting for my courage to catch up —He pushed the throttle forward. And we launched.
The force pressed me back against the seat as the ground blurred into color, then into nothing. My stomach dipped in that delicious, terrifying drop — the kind that feels like falling and flying at the same time. Wind shrieked against the frame as we shot upward.
“Breathe,” Jesus said. His voice was warm, steady, almost like a hand on my spine.
I inhaled. Clouds rushed toward us. Clouds surrendered beneath us.
And just when the sky turned that impossible shade of sapphire — everything changed.
A crackle burst through the headset. Static at first. Then words: "Mach 0.7, Mach 0.8, Mach 0.9"
The aircraft began to rattle. Not gently — violently. Like every bolt was trying to loosen itself.
Jesus smiled, “This shaking is not dangerous, beloved. It’s the last resistance of everything that controlled you.”
I wanted to believe Him, but fear pressed harder. “Then why does it feel like something is dying?”
He touched my hand — warm, grounding, unshakeable. “Because the borrowed identity you keep wearing can’t survive where we’re going.”
The jet shuddered harder. My stomach flipped. Old identities, what He called the borrowed identity, clung to me: religion, people-pleasing, striving, fixing, proving, controlling, fear of disappointing God, fear of disappointing others, the belief that I must hold everything together. Everyone of them screamed as we climbed higher. He smiled with fierce tenderness. “This is the sound barrier, beloved. Hold on to Me. Not to fear.”
The crackle burst through the headset again: Mach 0.97, Mach 0.98, Mach 0.99, Pilot, come in. You’re off course. Repeat: you are off course.”
I stiffened. The voice was so familiar that my heart jolted.
Jesus didn’t flinch. He simply adjusted a dial, letting the frequency sharpen like a knife.
The voice returned — this time, unmistakably: “Return immediately. You are entering restricted airspace. You’re flying too high. Too fast. Too far from the pattern you were taught.”
A lump rose in my throat. I knew that tone. I had obeyed that tone.
The tower.
The same tower I had lived under for years. The tower built of religion, fear, borrowed identity, rules disguised as righteousness, pressure disguised as holiness. The tower that monitored every move and called it protection.
“Jesus…” I whispered. “They’re calling me back.”
The radio barked louder: “Pilot, respond! You’re not authorized for this altitude. Return to safety. Return to what you know.”
Jesus exhaled softly — a sound like compassion wrapped in amusement. “Listen,” He said, “only to understand what you’re leaving.”
The tower kept chanting: “You’re going too far. Don’t trust too deeply. Don’t leave the formulas. Don’t step outside what we built for you. Who do you think you are?”
That line struck like an old bruise. My chest tightened. My hands shook on the controls. I felt my entire inner world shake. My thoughts. My breath. My emotions. My old safety systems. All rattling like the plane was coming undone.
I closed my eyes. And whispered: “I trust You.”
He pushed the throttle forward and rested one hand lightly over mine. “Look at Me.” The sky was reflected in His eyes — vast, endless, undemanding. “We’re not going back.”
The tower roared again: “Return! Now!”
Jesus pressed one button. Silence. Not even static. Just sky.
“Beloved…” He said, pointing upward. “That tower was never your safety.”
The engines hummed deeper as we climbed. Then the shaking began. Not outside — inside. The kind that rattles old belief, old fear, old identity. The kind that makes every nerve scream, Turn back! Turn back!
My breath quickened. The jet trembled harder, the way jets do when the air refuses to let them pass.
“What’s happening?” I gripped the controls until my knuckles burned.
He didn’t look alarmed. “This is what it feels like,” He said, “when the old world realizes you’re leaving it.”
The shaking intensified — metal shivering, air howling, my heartbeat racing wild.
“Jesus, it feels like we’re going to break apart.”
“We are,” He said softly. “But only the parts that were never yours.”
The turbulence roared, louder and louder, a storm of pressure pushing us down, screaming for us to fall, to return, to surrender. The tower’s voice, though silenced, echoed in my memory like a ghost: "Come back. Be who you were. Stay small. Stay safe. Stay grounded. Stay monitored. Stay managed."
I squeezed my eyes shut. “I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.” His hand tightened gently over mine. “Take that thought captive. You’re not following the old voice anymore.”
The shaking reached its fiercest point — the exact moment every pilot is tempted to pull back, slow down, abort the climb.
“Jesus, it’s too much—”
“No,” He whispered. “It’s almost enough.”
The jet shuddered like a living thing. My pulse pounded in my ears. The air felt thick, unbreathable.
“I’m scared.”
“I know,” He said tenderly. “But look forward.”
I opened my eyes. And then —the shaking snapped. Not a boom. Not an explosion. Just… Silence. A silence so profound it felt like stepping into the center of God’s heartbeat.
The air went still. The sky widened in a way I’ve never seen sky widen.
Everything — absolutely everything — became weightless.
And Jesus smiled. “That,” He said, “is freedom.”
The jet sliced forward effortlessly, like cutting through softened gold.
My breath returned in one long, trembling exhale. Tears slid down without force or fear — just release.
“Jesus…” I couldn’t find the words.
He glanced at me with gentle humor. “I told you the other side was worth it. You see,” He said softly, “the turbulence wasn’t an ending. It was the final argument of fear.”
We flew in that holy quiet: no pressure, no pull, no tower, no turbulence —only Presence. Then He said something I’ll never forget: “And I wish I could tell you this happens once and lasts forever. But freedom is not a single crossing. Every time you rise, the tower will call you back. Every time you trust Me, the old identity will whisper. Every time you fly higher, turbulence will meet you at the edge. But each time you choose Me…
Each time you take the thought captive…each time you refuse the callback…you’ll break through again. And again. And again.”
“Does it ever stop being scary?”
His eyes softened. “It stops feeling like fear…and starts feeling like flight.”
“And the tower?”
He looked ahead, the horizon unfolding like Scripture: “Once you taste the sky beyond the sound barrier…no imitation of safety will ever satisfy you again. The tower will still call. But the sky will call louder.”
We flew on. In that silence. In that presence. In that beloved identity.
And the world below felt impossibly far away.
Here is the truth my heart is learning: Once you’ve experienced absolute freedom, borrowed safety never has the same pull again. The tower may shout. It may broadcast. It may charm. It may sound like logic, responsibility, holiness, and wisdom.
But the sky…the sky makes liars of all those voices. Once you breathe in that peace, that love —His Presence, the quiet, the beloved identity —something in you forever knows: “This is home. This is me. This is God.”
And the callback loses its power. You broke through. You’re not turning back. Not because of stubbornness —but because you’ve tasted the air on the other side. And once you’ve tasted true freedom, every imitation becomes obvious. You did the brave thing. You flew into the turbulence instead of obeying the tower. Because once your spirit has tasted the freedom of the Beloved Identity…even the loudest tower cannot convince you to land.
And now? Now you live with the horizon inside you.
WHISPERS TO THE HEART
You are not failing because the tower still calls your name. You are human. You are healing. And heaven knows how often the sky must be chosen. Freedom is not the absence of turbulence —it’s the Presence beside you when it starts. Fly again, beloved. The sky remembers you.
REFLECTION from the Cockpit
Where do I feel the tower calling me back?
What does turbulence feel like in my own soul?
What part of me is breaking — the true self or the borrowed one?
Where is Jesus inviting me to trust the climb?
Galatians 5:1 “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.”
2 Corinthians 10:5 “…take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ.”
John 8:36 “So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.”
The turbulence = the borrowed identity resisting change. Fear shakes. Control shakes. Old beliefs shake. This is normal. This is healing.
The silence = the beloved identity. This is where peace becomes normal. Where presence becomes home. Where your nervous system finally believes you’re safe.
The new altitude = the life you were made for. Higher clarity. Higher trust. Higher joy. Higher intimacy with Jesus.
The the jet= that is your life —stronger than you think, fully capable of the altitude you are called to, designed for the skies, not the cage.
The tower = the old authority trying to call you back. Return to safety. Return to formulas. Return to performance.
