We entered the airport just in time to see that my wife’s flight had “Arrived”. At least this was the pronouncement of the board hanging above our heads. What a relief!
The 35-mile journey to the airport was in a downpour that would have rivaled Hurricane Andrew. In fact, just minutes after walking in the terminal, the electricity to the building went out. The lights went dark. The monitors flickered dead. There was a collective, “OHHH!!!” from those still wandering the concourse. I believed the pilot must have been a WWII flying ace to bring the ship down in this kind of weather. No matter his credentials, he’d done his job and he had done it well. My watch said 9:12 p.m. and they were home.
By 10:30 it was clear that my wife’s plane had not “Arrived”. A distressed voice crackled over the intercom was that the plane was in fact still circling the airport. The board still announced that they were at the airport and I quickly surmised that “Arrived” was a relative term.
We seated ourselves by the terminal exit but the floor became very hard.
We moved to the luggage claim area and this became boring.
We wandered outside to watch the lightning and listen to the thunder but soon tired of getting wet.
We ordered a coffee from Starbucks.
We visited the bathroom.
We checked out TGIFriday’s but I didn’t think my 14-year-old could sit at the bar, which by this time was the only thing open in the airport.
And then it happened. My cell phone rang. “Hello?” I answered cautiously.
“Hi!” her voice was mixed with sharp crackles of static from the lightening.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in St. Louis.” St. Louis? That’s right. They had flown in so many circles above our heads that the plane ran low on fuel. So they did the most obvious thing. They flew 250 miles away to stop for gas and directions.
More sitting. More waiting. More coffee. More bathroom visits. 10:37 came and went.
A shift in seats. Another sip of Pepsi. Another location. Another bathroom visit. Check the time…10:45.
The phone rang again and I checked my watch. 11:28 p.m.
“Hello?” I said weakly. I could not hide the fear that they had traveled on to Denver for coffee and donuts.
“Hi.” Anita’s voice was not as optimistic as it had been an hour earlier. “We’re just getting ready to shut the doors and pull away from the gate. We should be home in about 40 minutes.”
Forty minutes. 12:30 a.m. I can do that. I can wait that long. Forty minutes and we’ll be out the door, in the car, and on our way home. I can do that.
1:00 a.m. came and went.
1:30 a.m. “Arrived” and “Departed”.
When my phone rang again at 2:00 a.m. the conversation was short but very sweet. Not only had she “Arrived” but she was actually here. We rushed to the gate. I could see her getting off the plane and making her way to where we stood.
Some of life’s sweetest moments happen after the wait. It is in the anticipation that we come to realize what matters most, what is truly important. These moments occur in the midst of difficulty and delay. They arrive on a gossamer mist while you wait with breathless anticipation. They are found in the long awaited touch, the soft and gentle kiss, the deep and warm embrace.
None of those things happened that night.
Give me your carry on.
Why doesn’t this wheel work?
Push through the crowd.
Get the bags.
Watch it, Lady!
No that’s OUR bag.
Slop through the puddles.
Pay the attendant $12.00.
Drive 35 miles through pouring rain, crashing thunder, stabbing lightning, and 40 mph winds.
Stand in the tsunami while we fumble for the key to unlock the house.
Let out the dogs.
Stand out in more rain while they do their business.
Put the dogs away.
Brush your teeth.
Turn off the light and crash into bed.
But then I turned to my side and there she was. She was home. She was safe and sound in our home. I kissed her lightly on the forehead. I pulled her close. I thanked God for my wife and together we slept a very sweet sleep.
