Thrown From My Comfort Zone

and stumbling upon stories

In the early morning hours of darkness, my husband stops by the curb of the passenger drop-off zone. He lifts my suitcase out of the trunk and gives me a quick hug before driving off to our sleeping children and our comfortable home.

It's been seventeen years since I've flown alone, but the startling news that my mom is hospitalized with a brain tumor, likely cancer, has sent me on this unexpected trip.

My inexperience taunts me as I wander through the check-in area searching for some kind soul to help me, but then I realize I've walked past the counters and have to retrace my steps.

I bumble through check-in and follow the crowd to security. Once cleared, I start the search for my gate. Every step takes me farther away from the comfort of what's familiar, my family, and my home.

Well-dressed passengers bustle around me. They stride the concourse, confident of their destinations. I'm sure they are all educated and successful, probably leaving for business trips, family vacations, or destination weddings, maybe even flying to Paris with a sweetheart. I am the lone puffball in a freshly mowed yard, just a breath and my world will fly to pieces.

When I find my gate, I see a Holdeman lady seated in the crowd and feel an affinity to her, but she hardly looks at me and doesn't invite interaction.

At last, it is time to board. I'm nervous about the flight and the possibility of motion sickness. I'm worried about my family I left behind, and I'm fearful of what I'll find when I reach mom's bedside.

Waiting in line, I realized the Holdeman lady is right behind me, so I introduce myself, and ask if she lives locally or if she's flying home. She seems heavy-hearted but is polite and personable. She tells me she is flying home after leaving her son at a camp for troubled boys. My earlier judgment of her evaporates, and my heart floods with sympathy. Our connection is brief but meaningful, and suddenly, I am not alone in my heartache and questions about the future.

I settle in for the flight and journal a bit. I sip my coffee and try to read my Bible. I pull a magazine out of my bag hoping to distract myself. Nothing interests me until I see an article written by a lady who lost her mom as a teen. Although it's filled with heartache, it's laced with grace. Her words are an outstretched hand of hope.

We land, and I join the stream of travelers jostling through the gates and boarding area in search of information monitors and broad corridors. I locate my gate for the next flight and calculate the time until boarding. It doesn't board for over two hours, so I stroll to pass time.

“Let me be a blessing to someone today.” I whisper and continue my stroll feeling self-conscious in my sadness, uncertainties, and unusual attire.

As my walk comes to an end, I'm aware of a man crossing the concourse toward me. My first impulse is fear, but I pause and let him meet me.

“Kannst du Deutch sprechen?” he asks.

I recognize the German tongue, and I understand his question. But no, I cannot speak German. I scour my brain for one of the few phrases that were drilled into my head as a child.

“Ich kann es nicht verstehen.” (I cannot understand.) I say, nearly exhausting my store of the German language.

We stand facing each other trying to communicate. I speak slowly in English and offer universal gestures of uncertainty. He scatters English among his fluid German.

At last, we make a breakthrough. He is asking me to follow him. His companion speaks English. Follow a strange man? For a second, I want to refuse, but common sense tells me that I am safe. He gestures to a boarding area nearby. I follow him. He leads me to a wall of windows and a small, sober lady.

The man speaks quickly to her in German, then bows out of the conversation. She turns to me. I like her immediately. I want to help if I can. Her English is broken, but we communicate easily. She and her husband and son are from Bolivia. They are trying to get to High River, Alberta to attend a funeral, but in their travels, they have had many delays. They know they will not make it to the funeral, and they have no way to contact their friend who is planning to meet them at the airport.

“A phone! Yes, you may use my phone.” I say, happy at last to understand what they need. I dig my phone out of my bag and help her dial the number then sit and wait while she quickly updates her friend in a flow of German.

She ends the call and returns my phone. A warm feeling of kinship spreads over me. In my helplessness, I was given the honor of helping.

But then I'm taken aback. She's wanting to pay me.

“No, of course not.” I say. I tell her why I am traveling. I tell her about my whispered prayer. I tell her, “You are MY answer to prayer.”

Funny, I wonder if she feels the same way about me.

Seated on my next flight, I'm an assortment of emotion – eager to reach beautiful Alberta and my beloved mom but dreading arriving and finding this nightmare to be true. I'm always dreaming about my next trip to Alberta, but my dreams sure don't play out like this. What will we have to face? Will life ever be the same?

A fraternity of men swarm onto the plane and wriggle into the empty seats. I don't want to stare, but they invite attention, and I can't help but sneak a few glances. They are loud and jovial. They are young. They are having a good time. None of them have legs.

What have these men endured? What horrors have they witnessed together that has created this bond between them? And how can they laugh?

They are unforgettable, but it's laughter and camaraderie, not the missing legs, which leaves the greatest impact.

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Although months have passed, I still marvel at the way my story intersected that day with people who offered kinship in sorrow, hope in despair, and laughter after loss.

This time, as I travel, the process is predictable, and the old, familiar feeling of excitement for the journey is again stirring in me. I walk the corridors with the crowds, and I wonder what stories they are carrying with them—stories of heartache or stories of hope, stories fueled by fear or by courage, stories of loss or of love.

I feel anticipation for my destination and gratitude for the positive turn of events in mom’s story. And today, as I’m surrounded by strangers, I’m intrigued by the mystery in the thousands of stories slowly being written all around me.

Care to share a bit of yours?