Brighter Days

This weekend, I had to travel to Philly for a speaking engagement. On my flight back to the West Coast, the airline asked volunteers to give up their seats because the flight was oversold. Typically, I ignore those calls because--get me home! But this time, I was intrigued. As the compensation number kept climbing, so did my interest. Finally, they hit a number I couldn’t ignore. So I sacrificed myself on the altar of the Delta Gods, changed my flight, and instead of connecting through Detroit, I was rerouted through Atlanta—no time lost, and a miracle of riches gained. I didn’t have a seat on my next flight yet, but I had a promise and a little more cash. A win!

There are no mistakes, and that reroute brought me face-to-face with a living parable I didn’t yet know I needed to witness. As we took off from Philly, the pilot mentioned some rough weather ahead as we landed in Atlanta.

To score a decent seat for my next leg, I sauntered up to the counter two and a half hours before my next departure. I was on my best behaviour, hoping to charm my way into a great seat. Instead, I landed in the last row, right by the toilets. My saunter might need a tune-up.

A flight had just finished boarding, and the doors had closed seconds before I got to the counter. I had barely started explaining my situation when a woman came barreling up the aisle, pushing a man in an airport wheelchair like we were at the Daytona 500. All I could think was, Oh no... here we go. I swear I heard tires screech as she pulled the wheelchair into the gate, ran to the counter, and yelled, "Did we miss boarding?!" followed by a series of expletives that would make Richard Pryor proud.

They had missed boarding by a good stretch. She explained to the gate agent that she’d read the departure time as the boarding time. This was her first flight in a long while, and the frustration was thick. For a second, I thought I might end up in one of those viral airport videos, where someone’s world gets a little too heavy and spills out in public. But instead of a complete meltdown, she mostly yelled at her companion for insisting on “that second beer.”

As she raged on, the already grey skies outside grew darker. I doubt she noticed. I decided to get my steps in and took off, silently hoping those two made it home safely. Everyone could use a break. Sometimes, we need a little miracle to get us where we’re going. As I walked away, I noticed the plane they’d missed was still at the gate. Off I went, stepping to the oldies.

Eventually, I sat down to write what was supposed to be this week’s essay. Deep in the click-clack of my keys, I didn’t notice the sky had opened up. It was pouring. I wandered back to the gate to check on my flight (it was delayed). Who did I see? The Daytona Duo was back in line and ready to board their original flight.

Turns out the storm delayed the plane so much that everyone had to deboard, which meant Mr. Two Beers and Ms. Full Throttle got another shot. Like me earlier, they’d hit the airport lottery.

I’ve talked a lot about how uncertain I feel right now. I can feel the storm of change just ahead, and I keep wondering whether it’ll pass me by or land squarely on my head. But watching two people go from left behind to back on board in under an hour reminded me: even a storm can become a route to something better.

Their luck didn’t change when things were calm and perfect. It changed in the mess, unexpected pause, and thunder. The storm became the miracle.

We often forget the power and necessity of a good rainstorm. It clears the air, softens the ground, opens up the sky, and allows for the possibility of growth and alteration of the world around us. And sometimes, it gives us the exact delay we need to get where we’re meant to go.

Here’s to surviving the storm—and getting to the gate on time.