On Tuesday, Nov. 15, I had a flight from Grand Junction connecting to New Orleans through Denver. On my way to a convention, as well as a reunion with dear friends I hadn’t seen for 15 years, my heart fell as I learned that the flight would be delayed 25 minutes. I had only 45 minutes between my scheduled flights.
My preoccupation with “what ifs” made me less than chatty, but a lovely family headed to San Francisco sat on the same row. The son crowed with delight as the plane took off. The father and son played Hangman as we rose above the crowds. The mother studied her Messiah score for performance with the Aspen Choral Society.
When they learned of my short connection, they let me leave the plane first.
Bad news: My connecting flight in Denver sat at a gate at the very farthest end of the terminal, a 15-minute walk according to the gate agent. I grabbed my roller-bag and hoofed it. Unfortunately, the up escalator to the main B terminal didn’t work. I swore (Softly, I hope), but then, the father said, “Here, let me carry it up for you.” Once we got to the top, he offered to carry my tote bag, so I could concentrate on keeping my stride. His family waited at Gate 58, but he continued to accompany me all the way to Gate 20, enabling me to arrive a whole nine minutes before the door closed! Winded and red-faced, I could barely choke out my thanks.
I am so very grateful to this kind man and his family, who enabled me to catch the flight, to have a wonderful reunion dinner with my friends, and to participate in a rewarding conference. I don’t know their names, but they’ve earned a special spot in my heart.