Right before my Wisconsin vacation, I took a different kind of trip. I stumbled into a park ditch, twisting my ankle. This was not good timing, due to all the walking I would be doing in airports. I made a valiant effort to elevate my foot, ice my ankle and rest. Last-minute travel details needing completion made this impossible. I must be ready to stay with my Wisconsin grandkids during their parents’ Alaskan cruise!
This less than optimum situation was only the beginning of my tales of woe. Linda, my roommate, took me to the airport with bulging red suitcase, carry-on bag, cane and purse. The online boarding passes my brother assisted me with were ready for use. Confident all was well, I didn’t know my first trial would soon commence.
A concerned TSA attendant quickly removed my bag to a special area as I passed through security. What possible dangerous item could their personnel be examining so carefully? Had I committed some offense?
Another agent instructed me to follow her to a nearby location, carrying my bag. She showed me my bottle which contained approximately 4 ounces of water. Oh no, I had forgotten to dump it! She asked if I wanted to keep it. I looked around for a place to unload the water and considered a nearby trash can. But no, if I wanted to save my beloved purple, double-insulated, absolutely favorite water bottle, I needed to take it through security again.
My husband, my brother, even my best friend would have chucked it in a second, but not yours truly. I lugged that bottle around, and quite often forgot it, all over town. It was my constant companion. I couldn’t just dump it. I decided to cowboy up and go through the line once more. This time, more than twice the number of passengers were inching along through the line. Oh well, my purple little friend was worth it.
Once through security, I plopped myself down between two senior ladies at my gate waiting area. We exchanged greetings and I blessed them with conversation seasoned with my triumphant struggle afterglow. All seemed well with our growing society until bad news hit us. There would be a tiny delay while a mechanic checked a problem with the air-conditioning system. My stomach churned a little because of my already semi-rocky start, wondering if it prophesied of things to come.
Fifteen minutes later: the problem needed further analysis, possibly half an hour’s delay.
Twenty minutes later: Bad news. The parts needed to be sent for, extending the delay several hours, probably by noon. This greatly concerned me, since my connecting flight in Minneapolis gave only 57 minutes to transfer to the second leg of the journey.
People suddenly leaped out of their seats and rushed to the ticket counter to rebook their flights. I decided to join them. The stock-still line drove me crazy, and as I turned around to sigh deeply, I noticed my former seatmates signaling me to come. They discovered a phone number to rebook their flights from the comfort of their chairs. I tried it and it worked! I was given new arrangements for a flight through Salt Lake leaving at 10:35AM. The only problem: it was now 10:30 and I still needed an actual boarding pass. I raced to the next ticket booth for that flight with only one person in line before me. It might as well have been 10 people, since the same motionless process ended my hopes.
I wanted to scream! I wanted to cry! I wanted to lay down in the middle of the floor and have a temper tantrum! Instead, I took a deep breath, corralled my emotions, and got on the phone again. My only option became clear: I would catch the delayed original flight at 12:55PM, which meant I would arrive too late to see my daughter and son-in-law prior to their Alaskan plane trip.
Tears were close as I called my daughter. My son-in-law cheered me up by suggesting that we meet briefly during our mutual layovers in Minneapolis. He also assured me that my oldest grandson and granddaughter would be at the airport in Madison to pick me up. I did feel bad about the late hour for them, but it couldn’t be helped.
We arrived in Minneapolis after catching the 12:55 flight which turned into a 1:20 departure. I did not have to concern myself with a lack of air conditioning on this substitute plane’s cabin which felt absolutely frigid!
My phone search of the Minneapolis airport map did not prepare me for its minor-city proportions. With my ankle already throbbing upon my arrival, I decided to get help. It appeared Gate F-6 must be a sizable distance from my current location in the C’s. I positioned myself in the cart waiting area, making my cane obvious to passersby and managed to catch an available transporter’s eye. This decision had to be the brightest one I’d made all day.
Arriving at the packed gate, I hobbled down the corridor to check out the eating places, with four and a half hours to wait. Several gates down, I saw a familiar face. There stood one of my former seatmates in Spokane, who took an earlier flight. We greeted each other like life-long friends and decided to find a sit-down place to eat. My traveling companion turned out to be a fellow Christian and we delighted to share our lives with one another. Friends had prayed for me to share the gospel with fellow travelers, but God had used this occasion to encourage sisters in the Lord instead.
As she left to catch her flight via cart in the A area, I limped my way back to F-6. Once again, God provided more sisters of delay. I recognized some other survivors, and we laughed and talked until my daughter came through briefly. She and I quickly chatted about some last-minute instructions with the kids, and then she and her husband left to catch their flight.
Back with my new buddies, we commiserated with one another after we got the news of another delay, when our flight was due to leave. The stewardesses were obstructed from arriving due to fog. This made our arrival time in Madison past midnight.
The second flight wasn’t as frigid and lasted only forty minutes, so I soon made my way to the baggage claim. My fear of lost luggage haunted me, considering all the flight rearrangements. As I stood there searching for the bright red suitcase on the revolving carousel, I became discouraged when the final one was taken, and no red suitcase appeared. I sighed deeply. Of course, why would I expect this part of my journey to go better than any other?
I turned around slowly with tired, dry eyes and fatigue weighing heavily on my slumped shoulders to approach the nearby baggage workers. And then I saw it. The cherry red, blessed little bulging suitcase, waiting for me. I exclaimed in surprised delight, “How did you get there?”
As if in answer to my query of an inanimate object, a nearby stewardess proclaimed, “It’s been waiting for you. It must have made an earlier flight.” Wouldn’t you know it, my suitcase made the 10:35 flight I missed.
With reddened face, I hastily explained that this was the first early event I’d experienced on this trip. She asked if my flight was delayed. I replied, “If you only knew €¦” I smiled and made my way to the exit to meet my grandkids.
Dianna
Sharing the Fruit of Maturity
