The Flower Market, Amsterdam © 2005 Craig Dahlberg
The first-class passenger welcome booklet lay at my elbow, providing instructions for the video display and photos of available wines. Drenched in sweat, I had just boarded my Delta flight in Amsterdam, feeling unworthy of my unanticipated first-class lounging bed.
Conflicting emotions battled within me. Weeping and laughter are close cousins. They share the same voice box as they struggle for gasps for air. Tears of joy or sorrow are identical, but as opposite as a baby’s giggle and a wildcat’s howl.
Safe in my seat, I thought about the drama that got me there. My flight home had been canceled. There were no other flights to Los Angeles. So, like a beggar, I dragged myself to the customer service counter.
No luck. I’d have to spend the night on an airport bench. Desperate, I implored the agent to find a better resolution.
Still no luck.
Suddenly, her expression turned solemn. “I can’t book you on a Delta flight. But I just did! I made a huge mistake! But I can’t reverse it!” She held a finger to her lips. “Shhh! Just between us … Not a word! Off you go!”
I left, incredulous at my good fortune. When I reached gate D21 at the end of a long corridor, I found it empty. No wonder! I belonged at E21, not D21. I quickly hiked down two exhausting corridors to the opposite end of the terminal.
When I arrived at E21, I panicked. My iPhone was missing! I pleaded for help from the gate agents.
After long minutes of anxious waiting, an agent exclaimed, “We found your phone at the check-in counter! But you must retrieve it yourself. You have one hour before departure! Go down corridor E, then downstairs, through customs, to baggage, to the ticket counter, back through customs, up to corridor E, down corridor E, down the escalator before the bus leaves for the remote terminal! Hurry! Run!”
I galloped on the people mover. “Sorry … Whoops! Sir, kindly move over!” Then through customs, where an agent grabbed my arm.
“We’ve been looking for you! Here’s your phone! Hurry! Back through customs again!”
Long, long lines at customs. No hope. Perspiration soaked my shirt.
Two dozen minutes later, like a running back, I hurtled back toward the gate, over, under, around luggage, families, and strollers—
Finally, I reached gate E21, iPhone in hand, panicked and fumbling. Would my flight still be there?
As I rounded the corner, the Dutch gate crew spotted me and erupted with joy.
“Our favorite passenger, iPhone guy!” they yelled, clapping, fists pumping, and beckoning me onward. “You made it! Hooray!”
“Thank you all!” I puffed, waving frantically. “And thank God!” I exclaimed, gesticulating and pointing skyward amidst the cheers.
I had made it.
“Look here!” the gate agent exclaimed. “I’ve changed your seat! First class, seat 6C, a sleeping cubicle. You deserve it.”
Yet I knew I did not deserve this unmerited gift. Strapped into my seat, my turbulent emotions matched the 38,000-foot turbulence above the North Atlantic.
Tears of joy and anguish mingled. I was on the last leg of a five-week journey of grief, healing, and recovery to visit family and friends, my first trip without Jackie, my wife of 50 years. Only four months earlier, her suffering had ended.
I opened the welcoming booklet at my elbow. “Feel Like You’re the Only One” it chirped in proud first-class lingo.
I certainly did feel like the only one.
The only one so undeservedly flying first class.
The only one grieving the loss of Jackie.
The only one needing, but unable, to share my pain and my joy with her.
And I was the only one cheered on by a team, fists pumping skyward. “We knew you would make it!”
I settled into my seat for the eight-hour homeward trip.
And like the airplane, untethered from Earth’s gravity, I trusted that my fears would loosen their grip and fall away.